"Yes. He was pretty near down sick--just hobblin' around. Rheumatism and all. That old Pringle house is as damp as the grave. Miss Delia heard how bad off he was and off she marched with her pills and plasters and what-not. But Yance Battick wasn't goin' to let no woman into his house--and he told her so to her face." "I don't think Mr. Battick understands Miss Pringle's character," said Hiram. "He does not realize how very kind she means to be." "'Means to be'--yes. That's it. I never could give three cheers for those folks that always mean so much better than they do," sniffed the angular woman, who could not even speak in entire approval of her employer. "But it's wisdom to let fellows like Yance Battick alone. Besides," she added, dropping her voice, "there's dark doin's in that house of Battick's. Ain't no place for a decent, respectable woman." "You don't mean it!" exclaimed Hiram, rather amused. "I stopped there over night, and I saw nothing much out of the way." "You weren't let to," said Abigail pursing her lips. "There's those that say Yance Battick is deeper than Sim Paget's well--and _it_ never had no bottom! He's got a power of knowledge that never came out of books. And no man would ever be so crotchety and shy off his fellowmen like Yance Battick does, if he wasn't sold, body and soul, to the devil." Hiram found no answer to this statement. It was evident that Abigail Wentworth, lineal descendant of Salem Puritans transplanted to this Middle West, possessed superstitions that are popular still in some localities. The following day Mr. Bronson came up to Sunnyside himself with some more young cattle. He had heard of the "tramp" Hiram had taken in and whom Miss Pringle was nursing. Hiram had had rather a hard night with his patient; but he was freshened up when his employer arrived. "You are a good chap, Hi," Mr. Bronson said. "But you'll overdo some day, helping all the yellow dogs that come your way." "Better speak to Miss Pringle about it, too," grinned Hiram. "And we're not altogether sure he is a canine of the breed you mention." "Well, I'll take him back with me to the Plympton hospital--if you say so." "I don't think that would be best. Miss Pringle says he is coming along all right. He is pretty measly right now, and he might catch cold if he was moved and then they'd 'strike in,' so she says. Then he'd be worse off. Guess I've got him on my hands for a while." "It's your funeral," Mr. Bronson said. "And it might have been Orrin Post's funeral if I hadn't found him as I did. Hello!" he added, as he observed the loutish figure of Adam Banks approaching. "Here's a fellow wants to see you, I guess, Mr. Bronson." "What about?" "He _says_ he wants work. But he doesn't want to hire out to me--I'm too young," laughed Hiram.