He left his widow so nearly just enough to squeeze along on, that she had never seen her way clearly to that second coat of paint, or indeed, to any other sort of finishing up, and the great roomy mansion had held up its bare, square nakedness of weather-beaten pine, on the gentle slope towards the little river, for a quarter of a century. Even the trees refused to keep very close company with such a curious embodiment of ancient respectability, and all the winds of heaven, as well as all the hot summer suns, had the fairest kind of a chance at it. Still, the Wood mansion was by all odds the best boarding house in Ogleport, for its lady-owner was a notable housekeeper, and had a special pride in the character of her guests. “Haunted!” said George Brayton to himself, when he had finished unpacking his books in the big, second-floor front room, of which the widow made him temporary lord. “Haunted! It looks very much like it. But I don’t wonder the ghosts keep out of it in summer. There’s a perfect glare of light in it, from one end to the other. She doesn’t seem to suspect what the blinds were made for.” Zeb Fuller had struck a new idea that day. He had happened along in front of the Widow Wood’s, as Zeb was very apt to happen along, just when Brayton was making his transfer, and he had promptly offered his services. “Yes, Zeb, thank you,” replied Brayton. “Just carry up those dumb-bells to my room.” The pointing finger left no doubt as to what was meant, but Zeb incautiously remarked: “I never saw that kind of a hammer before. What’s it for?” The explanation that followed, with incidental references to Indian clubs, boxing-gloves, lifting machines and baseball, was a sort of a new revelation to the Ogleport champion, and Brayton had unconsciously completed the conquest he had so well begun at the lecture-room. “Who ever heard before,” thought Zeb, “of a teacher who knew more than any of the boys?” It was the first time any such phenomena had been seen in Ogleport. “Fact,” he said to himself; “I’m beginning to be afraid we ain’t able to teach him anything. Seems so very ready and willing to learn, too. Very different from old Sol.” He was walking down the street, half an hour later, when he was hailed by Hy Allen. “Zeb, did y’hear ’bout Puff Evans’s boat?” “No, what of it?” “Sold on execution, to-morrow, down in front of Runner’s tavern. Don’t I wish I could buy it!” “Awful hard on Puff,” said Zeb. “He made it himself, and it’s the best boat on the lake.” “Won’t fetch much,” said Hy. “Sorry for Puff. It’s just a game of some of them lawyers.” “Anyhow, we’d better be there,” said Zeb. “Maybe we can bid it up a little for Puff. How’ll he ever go a-fishing without it? Then, if Puff can’t fish, he’ll die.” “Reckon that’s so,” said Hy. “P’r’aps they’d ha’ levied on him, on’y the boat’s worth more’n he is.”