voice was heard calling for John Massey.

"That's Mr. Anthony Crawford," said the farmer, who had been standing
by the car admiring wistfully its shining sides and heavy tires. "He
owns this place and he comes up here nearly every day to see how I'm
farming it. I don't accomplish much with him always around to give me
sharp words and never a dollar for improvements. I've told him a
hundred times that the dike ought to be looked after this year or
we'll be having a flood, but he always says he guesses it will hold.
Yes, sir, I'm coming."

The calls had grown too loud to be disregarded, although it was plain
that John Massey was in no haste to obey the summons. In a moment the
owner of the voice came jingling and rattling around the corner of the
house, the same narrow-faced, gray-eyed man that Oliver had met on the
road, driving the same bony, knock-kneed horse.

"Whoa, there, whoa!" cried the driver, for the old white steed had
caught sight of the car and was testifying to its dislike of it by
grotesque prancings and sidlings that threatened to wreck the
ramshackle trap. "Here, get out of my way!" he ordered Oliver, "that
is, if you know how to handle that snorting locomotive that you think
you're driving."

Red with anger, Oliver started his engine and embarked upon a
maneuver that was difficult at best, and, under the present
unfavorable circumstances, proved to be nearly impossible. He turned
the car half round, collided with a pigsty, backed into the barnyard
fence, and narrowly missed taking a wheel off Anthony Crawford's
decrepit wagon. That gentleman assisted the process with jeering
remarks and criticisms, while Oliver grew redder and redder with fury
and embarrassment. At last, however, the car was turned and stood for
a moment in the driveway, facing the white horse which seemed to have
resigned itself to the presence of the puffing monster and to be very
reluctant to move.

"I have got out of your way, now will you be good enough to get out of
mine?" said Oliver very slowly, lest the rage within him should break
out into open insult.

In spite of his anger he could not help noticing that the man before
him moved with a curious easy grace, and that when he smiled, with a
white flash of teeth, he was almost attractive. It was impossible to
deny that, except for his thin lips and his hard gray eyes, he was
handsome.

"He must be about Cousin Jasper's age," Oliver thought as he sat
looking at him while