It was but a faint odor Hiram smelled—the sickish-sweet odor of a dead pipe; it led to the nearest calf-shelter.
He had been getting the pens ready for the young stock Mr. Bronson would send up to Sunnyside in a day or two. He had torn one of the fodder stacks to pieces, and scattered the broken and half-rotted bundles of fodder over the floor of the shed and pen to dry out and to be picked over and trampled by the cattle.
There had been nobody on the place this day to his knowledge—certainly not before he had driven to Pringleton. And what would bring any proper visitor down here to the sheds? But the tobacco smell was stronger as he approached the arched opening. A whiff of it was blown directly into his nostrils.
He reached up to the beam inside the opening and ran his hand along it—the very place an habitual smoker would be likely to place his pipe on entering the shed, sober or otherwise. Habit is strong.
There it was. Although it was cold, Hiram was sure it had not long been so. He held up his lantern the better to see it. There was a "heel" of half-burned tobacco in the pipe. That was what he had smelled.
The wabbly ray of the lantern flashed across the shed. Hiram, suddenly startled, saw a huddled form lying on the fodder-strewn floor.
The young farmer did not fancy handling any individual who was half intoxicated, as this person probably was. He was no friend to the drunkard in any case.
But the fellow might have matches in his pocket. In his drunken state he might do some damage with them. Besides, it was blowing up cold, and Hiram felt that he could not sleep warm himself if he knew this fellow-creature lay here with so little shelter.
He crossed the shed and stooped over the stranger. He placed a tentative hand on the shoulder nearest him. The touch elicited nothing but a groan.
"Pretty far gone," muttered Hiram. "Well, nothing to do but to roll him over more comfortably and bring one of Jerry's blankets—"