Joe came home the next day, and his indignation, when Jessie told him of the fire, and of the manner--presumably--in which it originated, was nearly as scorching as the fire itself. Nothing in the whole affair seemed to rouse his wrath to such a pitch as did her recital of the theories that she and Mrs. Horton had evolved to account for the threatened disaster. "W'at sort of fool talk dat?" he inquired, contemptuously, when Jessie had concluded. "Why, Joe, the fire must have started in some such way!" Jessie insisted. "Honey, yo's done got a forgibbin' sperrit; yo' not only forgibs yo' inimy, like what de Bible say fur ter do, but yo' eben furgits dat yo' has one!" "Oh, Joe! Surely you cannot think that it was the work of an incendiary?" "Ob a 'cindery? No, hit ain' dat." "What do you think, then, Joe?" "W'at I t'ink? Some low-down sneak sot hit afire. Dat's w'at I t'ink. An' I wouldn' hab ter hunt long afore I done laid my han's on him, neider." Jessie looked so shocked, and so cast down, that, chancing to catch the old man's eye, I shook my head at him warningly. Joe understood. His beloved master Ralph's tactics had been those of silence and Joe was willing to follow them to the end. But he muttered scornfully: "'Cindery? Dat a likely idee; w'en I nebber lef' a heap o' stuff like dat ag'in' nobody's house en all my life! Look like I'd go fur ter doin' hit now, w'en dish yer house hole my own fambly!" He seated himself in the corner with a bit of harness that he had brought up to the house to mend, in his hand, but presently he began searching anxiously for some mislaid tool. "What have you lost, Joe?" I asked. "W'y I ain' right shore as I done los' anyt'ing, chile, but de needle an' t'read w'at I put in dis cheer, ag'in' I wanted 'em, 'pear to hab crope away some'ers; likewise dat ar leetle case knife w'at I cuts leather wiv'. Dey's gone, an' I doan see dat chile Ralph 'round' nowhere's." Just at this point the door was pushed a little farther open and a cheerful voice proclaimed: "Here me is, Doe!" The voice was followed by its owner, little Ralph, but such a curious spectacle the boy presented that the occupants of the room stared at him a moment in amazed silence. Jessie was the first to recover her power of speech and remonstrance: "Ralph! Oh, what have you been doing, you naughty, naughty boy!" It was evident that the little trespasser had not realized that his recent occupation had been in any way objectionable. His lips began to quiver, but he stood his ground manfully. "Me isn't a notty, notty b'y, Jeppie. Me is a yittle 'orse, an' 'ese are 'e yittle 'orse's ley bells." "Sleigh bells! Didn't you know any better than to pull up all of Joe's cantaloupes and string them on to threads--how you could do it I can't imagine--to hang around your shoulders?" "Dey isn't 'antelopes, Jeppie; dey's ley bells." "How did you do it? Oh, you naughty--"