The stranger shrugged his shoulders in a way that was quite pathetic.
“See here,” he said soberly, “if you had a foot pretty nigh cut off by a scythe right on top of a hard spell of the typhoid fever, and no place to eat or sleep, you’d burrow in most anywhere lying around loose, wouldn’t you?”
“Does that describe your case?” questioned Tom.
“Just exactly,” responded the lad, a quick dry click in his throat. “I’m not able to do my old work, and you might call me a roving convalescent, see?” and he chuckled. “I manage to pick up enough food. I spotted this place, tried to keep out of anybody’s way, and tidied it up to pay for wearing out the floor boards. Then, too, I frightened off two tramps one night, who would have ransacked everything in sight if I hadn’t made them believe I was a private watchman.”
“But where do you live?” asked Ben.
“Here, if you’ll let me,” was the prompt reply.
“We’ll do better than that,” said Tom, who had been studying the boy’s face and manner closely, and each succeeding moment was attracted more and more by his honest eyes and frank ways.
“Will you?” questioned the lad wonderingly.
“Yes,” assured Tom. “To be plain about it, you are homeless and friendless.”
“To be plain about it, you’ve just hit the nail on the head.”