up his
shirt-sleeves and plunged in, whistling softly as he worked.

[Illustration: "What d'you want?" he demanded]

Old Caleb Grimstone followed the boy's movements almost in silence.
He had gruffly told him where he could find a pan for the chicken, and
once he snapped out at one of the dogs who had come forth from under the
table and was sniffing at Dale's legs. But for the most part he sat
motionless beside the stove, his eyes, under their beetling brows, fixed
intently on the busy figure with that same puzzled questioning in their
depths.

At last, when Dale had pared the potatoes and put them on to boil, he
suddenly growled, "Are you one of them boys that come sneakin' around
the lake last summer?"

Dale reddened a little, but did not hesitate. "I was out here two or
three times, I guess," he acknowledged.

The old man sniffed. "I s'pose you call _that_ one o' them 'good
turns'--trespassin' on a person's property, an' payin' no attention to
signs, an' all," he remarked.

"I wasn't a scout then," said Dale. He got a broom from the corner, and
on his way past the old man's chair he paused, his eyes twinkling a bit.
"Anyhow, on a roasting hot day you know a fellow'll do 'most anything
to get a swim. I expect you were that way yourself, Mr. Grimstone, when
you were a boy."

"Huh!" grunted the old man, disagreeably, but he made no further comment.

Once or twice, as he swept, Dale glanced curiously at the silent figure
by the stove and wondered what the old fellow was thinking about. His
eyes no longer followed the boy with sharp suspicion. His head was
bent a little, and he stared blankly, unseeingly, at a knot in the
board at his feet. For a long time he did not stir, save once to lift
the thin, veined hand from the chair-arm, only to grip it again with
a force that made the knuckles stand out white against the brown skin.
At length, with a sigh, checked almost in its birth, he raised his
head and frowned at Tompkins.

"Ain't you goin' to baste that fowl at all?" he inquired sharply.

Dale started guiltily at the reminder and hastened to the oven. The fowl
was browning nicely, and as he spooned up the sizzling juices, he hoped
his forgetfulness wasn't going to make any difference in its flavor.

Apparently it hadn't. After a number of anxious inspections, between
which he set the table for two, put plates to heat, and arranged the
remaining contents of the basket as temptingly as he could, he decided
t