"Wa'al," said David, twisting his shoulders in recollection, "I won't
harrer up your feelin's. 'S I told you, he done his best. I was willin'
to quit long 'fore he was. Fact was, he overdone it a little, an' he had
to throw water in my face 'fore he got through; an' he done that as
thorough as the other thing. I was somethin' like a chickin jest out o'
the cistern. I crawled off to bed the best I could, but I didn't lay on
my back fer a good spell, I c'n tell ye."

"You poor little critter," exclaimed Mrs. Cullom sympathetically. "You
poor little critter!"

"'T was more'n wuth it, Mis' Cullom," said David emphatically. "I'd had
the most enjoy'ble day, I might say the only enjoy'ble day, 't I'd ever
had in my hull life, an' I hain't never fergot it. I got over the
lickin' in course of time, but I've ben enjoyin' that cirkis fer forty
year. The' wa'n't but one thing to hender, an' that's this, that I
hain't never ben able to remember--an' to this day I lay awake nights
tryin' to--that I said 'Thank ye' to Billy P., an' I never seen him
after that day."

"How's that?" asked Mrs. Cullom.

"Wa'al," was the reply, "that day was the turnin' point with me. The
next night I lit out with what duds I c'd git together, an' as much grub
's I could pack in that tin pail; an' the next time I see the old house
on Buxton Hill the' hadn't ben no Harums in it fer years."

Here David rose from his chair, yawned and stretched himself, and stood
with his back to the fire. The widow looked up anxiously into his face.
"Is that all?" she asked after a while.

"Wa'al, it is an' it ain't. I've got through yarnin' about Dave Harum
at any rate, an' mebbe we'd better have a little confab on your matters,
seem' 't I've got you 'way up here such a mornin' 's this. I gen'ally do
bus'nis fust an' talkin' afterward," he added, "but I kind o' got to
goin' an' kept on this time."

He put his hand into the breast pocket of his coat and took out three
papers, which he shuffled in review as if to verify their identity, and
then held them in one hand, tapping them softly upon the palm of the
other, as if at a loss how to begin. The widow sat with her eyes
fastened upon the papers, trembling with nervous apprehension. Presently
he broke the silence.

"About this here morgige o' your'n," he said. "I sent ye word that I
wanted to close the matter up, an' seem' 't you're here an' come fer
that purpose, I guess we'd better make a job on't. The' ain't no