“Never mind the book, or what he touches,” said Polly; “we’ve got to stir our stumps and get these things of ours where they belong. Where’s your father?” “He’s gone out to the truck patch.” “So much the better. We shan’t need him till mealtime. By then Jerry will be back, I’m thinking. Trust the men for bein’ on hand when the vittles is on the table.” But it was not till they were snugly settled in bed that night that they heard the sound of some one at the door which Agnes had securely bolted. She gave Polly a gentle shake and whispered, “There’s some one at the door, Polly; I expect it’s Jerry.” “Whist!” said Polly. “Don’t wake your fayther, though he do sleep that heavy you could fire off a gun in the room and it wouldn’t stir him. I’ll go to the door and ask who it is.” She suited the action to the word and put the question, “Is it yersel’, Jerry?” “No,” was the reply in an unfamiliar voice. “Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?” Polly drew back. “The man’s stark, starin’ mad!” she exclaimed. “What’s he doin’ wanderin’ about without a kaper?” “Don’t let him in! Don’t let him in!” cried Agnes. “See that the window’s shut, Polly, do.” But Polly’s curiosity got the best of her, and she went to the window to peer out. The man was fumbling at the door, trying to get it unfastened. Failing in this he went toward the window. Polly quickly slammed to the wooden shutter, at the same time crying out, “Get out of here wid ye, and do it quick.” “I’ll do nothing of the kind,” came the reply. “This is my house, and naturally I should like to get into it.” Polly opened the shutter a crack. “Who says it is your house?” she asked. “I’ve been living here for a month, and it’s mine by good right. The people who used to live here have gone back east, as perhaps you know, and as I came here before you did, I have the best right to the place. First come, first served, you know. If you don’t let me in by the door, I will have to climb in by one of the windows. Where’s your husband? Perhaps he’ll listen to reason.” “It’s mesel’ who’d be glad to know where he is,” returned Polly, seriously, “and I’d be glad if you’d tell me.” The man gave a little chuckle. Agnes by this time had drawn near to Polly and was listening. “I don’t believe he’s crazy, Polly,” she whispered; “he’s only impudent. Shall I call father?” “No, I’ll manage him,” returned Polly, coolly. “Let him try to get in wanst, an’ I’ll make it hot for him. If he’s not a crazy man nor an Injun, I’m not afraid to tackle him.” The man was now occupied in wresting the leathern hinges of the shutters from their fastenings, and seemed likely to succeed. It would be easy enough then to cut through the piece of linen which, smeared with bear’s oil, served in lieu of window-glass.