“Yes, sir--in an old abandoned farmhouse, rent free, about a mile north of here.”
“With your folks?”
“No, sir, I have no folks, only an old grandfather. He’s past working, and, well, a--a little queer at times, and I have to keep close watch of him. That’s what’s the trouble.”
The claim agent took out his note book.
“Look here,” he spoke, “if Fairbanks will vouch for you, I’ll tab off the chickens to you at fifteen dollars, due in thirty days.”
“O--oh!” gasped the lad, clasping his hands in an ecstacy of hope and happiness. “I’ll be sure to pay you-- Why, with what I know I can do with those chickens, I could pay you ten times over inside of a month.”
“Mr. Fry,” said Ralph, studying the boy’s face for a moment or two, “I’ll go security for my friend here.”
“Say--excuse me, but say, Mr. Fairbanks, I--I--”
The boy broke down, tears chocking his utterance. He could only clasp and cling to Ralph’s hand. The latter patted him on the shoulder with the encouraging words:
“You go ahead with your chicken farm, Glen, and if it needs more capital come to me.”