"I ain't got no real business," replied the other apologetically. "I fishes an' hunts an' things like that." "A squatter--eh?" "Yep, I air a squatter all right," Jake admitted, "but I air a decent man, an' allers been decent. I don't do nothin' I hadn't ought to." "Who's sayin' you do?" snapped Burnett. "Now, I want to ask you a few questions. I'm from Auburn Prison, and if you lie to me, I'll put you where the dogs won't bite you.... Do you get me?" Jake's jaw dropped, but he stood still, and looked at the officer anxiously. "Yep, I get ye," he returned submissively, "an' I ain't a goin' to lie to ye nuther.... What do ye want?" Burnett's fierce eyes bent a compelling glance on the man in the road. "How many squatters 're living down by the lake?" he demanded harshly. Brewer thought a minute. "I calc'late mebbe there air fifty, mebbe a hundred," he answered. "I ain't never counted 'em, mister." Jake moved on a little, but the warden stopped him peremptorily. "Any jail birds down there?" he thrust at him. Brewer made a negative gesture. "Not's I know of," he stammered. "Ain't nobody down there been in jail? Anybody ever been to Auburn?" Jake's crooked fingers mounted from his hair line to the back of his skull, lifting the soft cap partly from his head. Then he scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Well, there ain't no guilty man down there," he said, at last. "There air Orn Skinner--" Burnett gave an exultant cry. "My God, I'd forgotten he came from this part of the country! So Skinner's here among this set of squatters, eh? What luck! I'll bet--" "Ye won't find no dwarf in Skinner's shanty," expostulated Brewer with conviction. "That's up to me to find out!" growled the warden. "Where does Skinner live? Near here?" Brewer's fingers directed south. "First turn to the left, 'bout a mile ahead," he pointed out. "Skinner's shack air close to the lake. A hedge and lots of flowers air growin' 'round it." Burnett tightened his lines, chirruped to the horse, and drove on, the squatter staring open-mouthed after him. * * * * * The summer sun bathed the hillside and warmed the Skinner shanty. Tessibel's hedge lifted its green head upward as if to catch the golden rays. The flower beds rimmed the hut like a bewildering, gorgeous rainbow. Everything belonging to Tess seemed at absolute peace with itself and the world. Orn Skinner, his head sunken between the two humps on his shoulders, was lazily whittling a stick when the sound of a horse's hoofs in the lane near Young's barn arrested his attention. It was the one sound the squatter expected that day, yet dreaded. Furtively, he leaned back near the partly open door. "Some 'un's coming, Tess," he warned.