“And there isn't any clean fun for a fellow in Crawberry--fun that doesn't cost money. And goodness knows I can't make more than enough to pay Mrs. Atterson, and for my laundry, and buy a new suit of overalls and a pair of shoes occasionally. “No, sir!” concluded Hiram. “There's nothing in it. Not for a fellow like me, at any rate. I'd better be back on the farm--and I wish I was there now.” He had been to church that morning; but after the late dinner at his boarding house had set out on this lonely walk. Now he had nothing to look forward to as he returned but the stuffy parlor of Mrs. Atterson's boarding house, the cold supper in the dining-room, which was attended in a desultory fashion by such of the boarders as were at home, and then a long, dull evening in his room, or bed after attending the evening service at the church around the corner. Hiram even shrank from meeting the same faces at the boarding house table, hearing the same stale jokes or caustic remarks about Mrs. Atterson's food from Fred Crackit and the young men boarders of his class, or the grumbling of Mr. Peebles, the dyspeptic invalid, or the inane monologue of Old Lem Camp. And Mrs. Atterson herself--good soul though she was--had gotten on Hiram Strong's nerves, too. With her heat-blistered face, near-sighted eyes peering through beclouded spectacles, and her gown buttoned up hurriedly and with a gap here and there where a button was missing, she was the typically frowsy, hurried, nagged-to-death boarding house mistress. And as for “Sister,” Mrs. Atterson's little slavey and maid-of-all-work---- “Well, Sister's the limit!” smiled Hiram, as he turned into the street, with its rows of ugly brick houses on either hand. “I believe Fred Crackit has got it right. Mrs. Atterson keeps Sister instead of a cat--so there'll be something to kick.” The half-grown girl--narrow-chested, round shouldered, and sallow--had been taken by Mrs. Atterson from some charity institution. “Sister,” as the boarders all called her, for lack of any other cognomen, would have her yellow hair in four attenuated pigtails hanging down her back, and she would shuffle about the dining-room in a pair of Mrs. Atterson's old shoes---- “By Jove! there she is now,” exclaimed the startled youth. At the corner of the street several “slices” of the brick block had been torn away and the lot cleared for the erection of some business building. Running across this open space with wild shrieks and spilling the milk from the big pitcher she carried--milk for the boarders' tea, Hi knew--came Mrs. Atterson's maid. Behind her, and driving her like a horse by the ever present “pigtails,” bounded a boy of about her own age--a laughing, yelling imp of a boy whom Hiram knew very well. “That Dan Dwight is the meanest little scamp at this end of the town!” he said to himself.