Willis Ford went to the station master, who stood at the door with a cheap cigar in his mouth.

“Is there a man named Joel Barton living hereabouts?” he asked.

The station master took his cigar from his mouth and surveyed his questioner with some curiosity.

“Does he owe you money?” he inquired.

“No,” answered Ford, impatiently. “Will you answer my question?”

“You needn't be in such a pesky hurry,” drawled the station master. “Yes, he lives up the road a piece.”

“How far is a piece?”

“Well, maybe a mile.”

“Straighten?”

“Yes.”

“Is there any way of riding?”

“Well, stranger, I've got a team myself. Is that boy with you?”

“Yes.”

“I'll take you over for half a dollar.”

“Can you go at once?”

“Yes.”

“Then it's a bargain.”

The station master, whose house was only three minutes' walk away, appeared in a reasonable time with a farm wagon, drawn by an old horse that had seen better days, it is to be hoped, for she was a miserable-looking mare.

“Jump in, Herbert,” said Ford.

The boy obeyed, and sat on the front seat, between the driver and his abductor.

“I suppose the horse is warranted not to run away?” said Ford, regarding the animal with a smile.

“He ran away with me once,” was the unexpected answer.

“When was that?”

“'Bout fifteen years ago,” replied the driver, with grim humor. “I reckon he's steadied down by this time.”

“It looks like it,” said Ford.

“Know Joel Barton?” asked the station master, after a pause.

“I saw him once when I was a boy.”

“Any relation?”

“He married a cousin of my stepmother. What sort of a man is he?”

“He's a no-account man—shif'less, lazy—drinks.”

“That agrees with what I have heard. How about his wife?”

“She's smart enough. If he was like her they'd live comfortably. She has a hard time with him and Abner—Abner's her son, and just like his father, only doesn't drink yet. Like as not he will when he gets older.”

Willis Ford was not the only listener to this colloquy. Herbert paid attention to every word, and in the poor boy's mind there was the uncomfortable query, “Why are we going to these people?” He would know soon, probably, but he had a presentiment of trouble.

“Yes,” continued the station master, “Mrs. Barton has a hard row to hoe; but she's a match for Joel.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“She's got a temper of her own, and she can talk a man deaf, dumb, and blind. She gives Barton a piece of her mind whenever he comes home full.”

“She ought to have that satisfaction. From what you tell me, I don't feel very proud of my unknown relatives.”

“Goin' to stay there any length of time?”

“I don't know my own plans yet,” answered Willis Ford, with a glance at the boy. He foresaw a scene when he announced his purpose to leave Herbert in this unpromising place, but he did not wish to anticipate it.

“I suppose Barton is a farmer?” he suggested.

“He pretends to be, but his farm doesn't pay much.”

“What supports them?”

“His wife takes in work from the tailors in the the village. Then they've got a cow, and she makes butter. As for Joel, he brings in precious little money. He might pick up a few dollars hirin' out by the day, if he wasn't so lazy. I had a job for him myself one day, but he knocked off at noon—said he was tuckered out, and wanted me to pay him for that half day. I knew well enough where the money would go, so I told him I wouldn't pay him unless he worked until sunset.”

“Did he do it?”

“Yes, he did; but he grumbled a good deal. When he got his pay he went over to Thompson's saloon, and he didn't leave it until all the money was spent. When his wife heard of it she was mad, and I expect she gave Joel a taste of the broom handle.”

“I wouldn't blame her much.”

“Nor I. But here we are. Yonder's Barton's house. Will you get out?”

“Yes.”

Abner, who was sitting on a stump, no sooner saw the team stop than he ran into the house, in some excitement, to tell the news.

“Marm,” he said, “there's a team stopped, and there's a man and boy gettin' out; 'spect they're coming here.”

“Lord's sake! Who be they?”

“Dunno.”

“Well, go out and tell 'em I'll see' em in a minute.”

Abner met them in front of the house.

“Are you Joel Barton's son?” asked Ford.

“That's what the old man says,” returned Abner, with a grin.

“Is your mother at home?”

“Marm will be right out. She's slickin' up. Who be you?”

“You'll know in good time, my boy.” “Who's he? Is he your son?”

“No,” answered Herbert promptly.

Willis Ford turned upon his young ward with a frown. He understood the boy's tone.

“It will be time to speak when you are spoken to,” he said sharply.

“Here's marm'” said Abner, as his mother's tall figure appeared in the doorway.