“I was hoping Barry might be with you,” he said. “I met him in Hartford yesterday, and we planned to come up here for a couple of days’ gunning. You know he owns the shack here, and he was to be here at five o’clock. I’ve been waiting here since a little after four, but haven’t seen hide or hair of him. I was just beginning to think of breaking through a window and making myself as comfortable as I could for the night, when you appeared.” “That’s funny,” Dick said thoughtfully. “We came over with exactly that same idea in view. Made arrangements with Cobmore here, who is Lawrence’s agent, to take the place for the rest of the week. Did he say anything to you about coming here himself?” He looked at Cobmore as he spoke, and the farmer shook his head decidedly. “Nary a word,” he returned emphatically. “It’s news to me. He most generally lets me know a couple of days before he wants it, so thar won’t be nobody else here. Be you sure, young feller, it was Barry Lawrence you made them arrangements with?” There was a faint, but unmistakable note of incredulity in his voice which brought the color into McCormick’s face. “Of course it was,” he said tartly. “You don’t think I’d take it upon myself to come here without his invitation, do you? We made all the arrangements last night, and would have come down together, but Barry had to go to New York this morning and wasn’t sure what train he would make back. So we decided to meet here. He said he wouldn’t be later than five, but I suppose something has happened to detain him. Very likely he’ll be down later.” “It’ll be a hang sight later, then,” the farmer grumbled, as he mounted the steps and drew out a bunch of keys. “There ain’t no train on this branch till te-rmorrer morning.” “What difference does it make, anyway?” Dick said lightly. “We’ll have a bang-up time together, and if Lawrence shows up he’ll just have to join in with us. After getting this far I don’t feel like turning around and going back, especially when he hasn’t even appeared on the scene.” Cobmore turned the key in the lock and swung the door open. “Thar you be, gents,” he said. “Make yourselves to hum. You’ve got all the grub you need to-night, an’ ter-morrer I’ll send Jake over with milk and butter an’ a few eggs. I got to be gittin’ back, or the old lady’ll raise my hair.” They bade him good night and he disappeared into the rapidly falling shadows, while the young fellows trooped riotously into the house. On a stand in the hall they found a candle and matches, which they lit at once and commenced a tour of inspection. It was a typical New England farmhouse of the better class, rather more spacious, perhaps, than the majority, and certainly more rambling. The original central building, square and severely plain, had been added to from time to time, a room here, a wing there, until the size of the house had been more than doubled.