"Here, you Jed!"

Jed paused in his work with his axe suspended above him, for he was splitting wood. He turned his face toward the side door at which stood a woman, thin and sharp-visaged, and asked: "Well, what's wanted?"

"None of your impudence, you young rascal! Come here, I say!"

Jed laid down the axe and walked slowly to the back door. He was a strongly-made and well-knit boy of nearly sixteen, but he was poorly dressed in an old tennis shirt and a pair of overalls. Yet his face was attractive, and an observer skilled in physiognomy would have read in it signs of a strong character, a warm and grateful disposition, and a resolute will.

"I have not been impudent, Mrs. Fogson," he said quietly.

"Don't you dare to contradict me!" snapped the woman, stamping her foot.

"What's wanted?" asked Jed again.

"Go down to the gate and hold it open. Squire Dixon will be here in five minutes, and we must treat him with respect, for he is Overseer of the Poor."

Jed smiled to himself (it was well he did not betray his amusement), for he knew that Mrs. Fogson and her husband, though tyrannical to the inmates of the poorhouse, of which they had been placed in charge by Squire Dixon three months before, were almost servile in the presence of the Overseer of the Poor, with whom it was their object to stand well.

"All right, ma'am!" he said bluntly, and started for the gate. He did not appear to move fast enough for the amiable Mrs. Fogson, for she called out in a sharp voice: "Why do you walk like a snail? Hurry up, I tell you. I see Squire Dixon coming up the road."

"I shall get to the gate before he does," announced Jed, independently, not increasing his pace a particle.

"I hate that boy!" soliloquized Mrs. Fogson, looking after him with a frown. "He is the most independent young rascal I ever came across—he actually disobeys and defies me. I must get Fogson to give him a horse-whipping some of these fine days; and when he does, I'm going to be there and see it done!" she continued, her black eyes twinkling viciously. "Every blow he received would do me good. I'd gloat over it! I'd flog him myself if I was strong enough."

The amiable character of Mrs. Fogson may be inferred from this gentle soliloquy. When Fogson married her he caught a Tartar, as he found to his cost. But he was not so much to be pitied, for his own disposition was not unlike that of his wife, but he lacked her courage and intense malignity, and was a craven at heart.

As Jed walked to the gate his face became grave and almost melancholy.

"I can't stand this kind of life long!" he said to himself. "Mrs. Fogson is about the ugliest-tempered woman I ever knew, and her husband isn't much better. What a contrast to Mr. Avery and his good wife! When they kept the poorhouse we were all happy and contented. They had a kind word for all. But when Squire Dixon became overseer he put in the Fogsons, and since then we haven't heard a kind word or had a happy day."

Just then Squire Dixon's top buggy neared the gate. He was a pompous-looking man with a bald head and red face, the color, as was well known, being imparted by too frequent potations of brandy. With him was his only son and heir, Percy Dixon, a boy who "put on airs," and was, in consequence, heartily detested by his schoolmates and companions. He had small, mean features and a pair of gray eyes, while his nose had an upward tendency, as if he were turning it up at the world in general.

Jed held the gate open in silence and the top buggy passed through.

Then he slowly closed the gate and walked up to the house.

There stood Mrs. Fogson, her thin lips wreathed in smiles, as she ducked her head obsequiously to the town magnate.

"How do you do, Squire Dixon?" she said. "It does me good to see you. But I needn't ask for your health, you look so fine and noble this morning."

Squire Dixon was far from being inaccessible to flattery.

"I am very well, I thank you, my good friend, Mrs. Fogson," he said in a stately tone, with a gracious smile upon his florid countenance. "And how are you yourself?"

"As well as I can be, squire, thanking you for asking, but them paupers is trials, as I daily discover."

"Nothing new in the way of trouble, I hope, Mrs. Fogson?"

"Well, no; but walk in and I'll send for my husband. He would never forgive me if I didn't send for him when you were here. Master Percy, forgive me for not speaking to you before. I hear such good accounts of you from everybody. Your father is indeed fortunate to have such a son."

Percy raised his eyebrows a little. Even he was aware of his unpopularity, and he wondered who had been speaking so well of him.

"I'm all right!" he answered curtly.

Squire Dixon, too, though he overestimated Percy, who was popularly regarded as a chip of the old block, was at a loss to know why he should be proud of him. Still it was pleasing to have one so near to him complimented.

"You are kind to speak of Percy in that way," he said.

"He's so like you, the dear boy!" murmured Mrs. Fogson.

This might be a compliment, but as Percy stood low in his studies and frequently quarreled with his school companions, Squire Dixon hardly knew whether to feel flattered.

Percy looked rather disgusted to be called a "dear boy" by a woman whom he regarded as so much his social inferior as Mrs. Fogson, but it was difficult to resent so complimentary a speech, and he remained silent. He looked scornfully about the plainly-furnished room, and reflected that it would be pleasanter out of doors.

"I guess I'll go out in the yard," he said abruptly.

"Would you be kind enough in that case, Master Percy, to tell the boy Jed to go and call my husband from the three-acre lot? He is at work there."

"Yes, Mrs. Fogson, I'll tell him."

Percy left the room and walked up to where Jed was splitting wood.

"Go and call Mr. Fogson from the three-acre lot!" he said peremptorily.

Jed paused in his work.

"Who says so?" he inquired.

"I say so!"

"Then I shan't go. You are not my boss."

"You are an impudent boy."

"Why am I?"

"You have no business to talk back to me. You'd better go after Mr. Fogson, if you know what's best for yourself."

"Did Mrs. Fogson send the message by you?"

"Yes."

"Then I will go. Why didn't you tell me that before?"

"Because it was enough that I told you. My father's the Overseer of the Poor."

"I am aware of that."

"And he put the Fogsons where they are."

"Then I wish he hadn't. We had a good time when Mr. Avery was here. Now all is changed."

"So you don't like Mr. and Mrs. Fogson?" asked Percy curiously.

"No, I don't. But I must be going to the lot to call Mr. Fogson."

"I'll go with you. I don't want to be left alone."

Jed ought doubtless to have felt complimented at this offer of company from his high-toned visitor, but he did not appear to be overwhelmed by it.

"You can go along if you like," he said.

"Of course I can. I don't need to ask permission of you."

"Certainly not. No offense was meant."

"It is well for you that there isn't. So you liked Mr. and Mrs. Avery better than the Fogsons?"

"Yes," answered Jed guardedly, for he understood now that Percy wanted to "pump" him.

"Why?"

"Because they treated me better."

"My father thinks well of the Fogsons. He says that old Avery pampered the paupers and almost spoiled them."

"I won't argue the question. I only know that we all liked Mr. and Mrs. Avery. Now it's scold, scold, scold all day and every day, and we don't live nearly as well as we did."

"Paupers mustn't expect to live as well as at a first-class hotel!" said Percy sarcastically.

"They certainly don't live like that here."

"And they won't while my father is overseer. He says he's going to put a stop to their being pampered at the town's expense. You live well enough now."

"If you think we live so well, I wish you would come and board here for a week."

"Me—board at a poorhouse!" ejaculated Percy in intense disgust. "You are very kind, but I shouldn't like it."

"I don't think you would."

"All the same, you ought to be grateful for such a good home."

"It may be a good home, but I shan't stay here long."

"You shan't stay here long?" exclaimed Percy in amazement. "Do you mean to tell me you are going to run away?"

"I haven't formed any plans yet."

"I'll tell my father, and he'll put a spoke in your wheel. What do you expect to do if you leave? You haven't got any money?"

"No."

"Then don't make a fool of yourself."

Jed did not reply, for they had reached the fence that bounded the three-acre lot, and Mr. Fogson had discovered their approach.