Above the slanted gun-barrel appeared a ferocious black moustache which completely hid the wearer's mouth, a beak-like nose, and a pair of blue eyes that glittered half wildly. Altogether the householder was of most forbidding aspect, and the youth at once identified him as Yancey Battick. He had evidently stopped at the wrong house after all!
"I want nothing, Mr. Battick, but shelter till the rain holds up," Hiram answered.
"Who told you my name?" demanded the man. "I never saw you before, young fellow."
"I guessed it," Hiram replied. "I'm a pretty good Yankee at guessing."
"And you are a Yankee, I imagine," the man said. "You're from the East, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir," replied Hiram, and mentioned the locality from which he had just come in answer to Mr. Stephen Bronson's summons.
The man still presented the gun, and although Hiram had stepped from under the cascade pouring down from the roof, he was anything but comfortable out there on the porch.
"Where are you going?" asked Battick, scowling still.
"To Sunnyside Farm."
"Why, there's nobody there! The house is burned down."