“Oh, nothin'.” She had said enough. I could guess the rest. I walked to the window and stood, looking out. The clouds were breaking and, as I stood there, a ray of sunlight streamed through a rift and struck the bay just at the spot where the dingy had grounded. The shallow water above the flat flashed into fire. I am not superstitious, as a general thing, but the sight comforted me. It seemed like an omen. There was the one bright spot in the outlook. There, at least, I had not behaved like a “fool Rube.” There I had compelled respect and been taken seriously. Dorinda spoke again. “You ain't asked who your other caller was,” she observed. “Was there another?” “Um-hm. I told you there was two. After Cap'n Jed left that chauffeur feller from the big house come here. He fetched a note for you. Here 'tis.” I took the note. It was addressed to me in a man's handwriting, not that of “Big Jim” Colton. I opened the envelope and read: Roscoe Paine. Sir: The enclosed is in payment for your work. No receipt is necessary. Yours truly, B. VICTOR CARVER. The “enclosed” was a five-dollar bill. I stood staring at the note. Then I began to laugh. “What's the joke?” asked Dorinda, who had not taken her eyes from my face. “This,” said I, handing her the money. She looked at it in astonishment. “Um-hm,” she said, drily. “Well, I--well, a five-dollar bill may be a joke to you, but _I_ ain't familiar enough with one to laugh at it. You don't laugh as if 'twas awful funny, either. Who's the joke on?” “It's on me, just now. “Um-hm. I'd be willin' to be joked ten times a day, at that price. And I'd undertake to laugh heartier than you're doin', too. What's it for? the money, I mean.” “It's for some 'work' I did yesterday.” She was more astonished than ever. “Work! You?” she exclaimed. “Yes. But don't worry; I shan't do it again.” “Land! THAT wouldn't worry me. What sort of work was it?” “Oh, I--I picked up something adrift in the bay.” “Um-hm. I see. Somethin' belongin' to the Coltons, I s'pose likely. Why won't you do it again? Ain't they paid you enough?” Again I laughed. “They have paid me too much,” I said, bitterly. “What I picked up wasn't worth the money.” CHAPTER VII And that, in the end, was the answer I sent to Carver with his five dollars. I spent an hour in my room trying to compose and write a sarcastic reply to his note, but I finally gave it up. Then I put the money in an envelope, addressed the latter, and sent it to the big house by Lute. Lute was delighted with the errand. “You'll explain to Dorindy, will you?” he asked. “She cal'lates I'm goin' to clean the henhouse. But I can do that some other time.” “You can--yes.” “Do you know--” Lute leaned against the clothes post and prepared to philosophize. “Do you know,” he observed, “that I don't take no stock in cleanin' henhouses and such?” “Don't you? I'm surprised.”