Uncle Joe soon found her a live companion at least, for he had scarce left the village ere she began.
“Your hosses are fatter’n Tim’s hosses used to be,” she said. “Do ye feed ’em on hay and taters?”
Uncle Joe gave her a sideways glance.
“Hay and taters,” he exclaimed; “we don’t feed hosses on taters down here. Where’d you come from?”
“I used to live at Tim’s Place, up in the woods, ’n’ we fed our hosses on taters, ’n’ they had backs sharp ’nuff to split ye.”
This time Uncle Joe faced squarely around.
“I know all about hosses,” she continued glibly, “I used to take keer on ’em ’n’ ride one ploughin’, an’ I’ve been throwed more’n a hundred times when we struck roots, an’ ye ought to ’a’ heerd Tim cuss. I used to cuss just the same, but Mrs. Frisbie says I mustn’t.”
“Wal, I swow,” ejaculated Uncle Joe, realizing that he had a “case.” “What’s your name, ’n’ whar’s Tim’s Place?”
“My name’s Chip, Chip McGuire, only ’tain’t, it’s Vera; but they allus called me Chip, an’ Tim’s Place is ever so far up in the woods. I runned away ’cause dad sold me, an’ fetched up at Mrs. Frisbie’s camp, ’n’ she’s goin’ to eddicate me. My mother got killed when I was a kid, ’n’ my dad killed ’nother one, too; he’s a bad ’un.”
Uncle Joe gasped at this gory tale of double murder, not being quite sure that the girl was sane.