“Hum. Wal, we’re a-comin’ to a house, but I don’t think ye’d want it. It’s—uh—kind o’ lonesome. Folks says there’s some funny things into it. There ’tis now.”
They emerged from a tunnel of trees, and Douglas looked at a house which he knew must be that of Jake Dalton. It was at the left of the road, in a clearing rank with uncut grass, behind which rose forest headed by two giant pines. It was a little box of a place, not more than twenty feet square; weather-worn, with patched roof and tiny sagging porch. The small bare windows gaped black and blank at the forest cordon. The door stood ajar, as if the latest occupant had left in haste. About it hung an air of abandonment, of desolation, of forbidding loneliness.
“Looks all right to me,” declared Douglas. “Not very cheerful, but I’ll try it one night, anyway. Whoa!”
Eb drew the reins. The horse stopped. Douglas got out and lifted his pack. The old man sat soberly staring at the house.
“I dunno,” he muttered. “I dunno. Stranger, ye better ride on a piece.”
“Where to?”
“Um—I dunno. Mebbe somebody’d sleep ye. I’d do it myself, but I’m a-goin’ to High Falls an’ I ain’t comin’ back to-night.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it just the same. But I reckon I’ll stop here for the night. Much obliged to you, Mr. Wilham, for the ride, and more for helping me against those dogs.”
“’Tain’t nothin’,” was the hasty disclaimer. “Them dawgs ought to been kilt long ago—I give Nat warnin’ more’n once. An’ don’t call me Mister. I ain’t used to it. ’Most everybody calls me Uncle Eb.”
“All right, Uncle Eb,” smiled the other.