"I saw the final contest. Couldn't get away to spend the whole day, though I would have liked to. I had to work."
"Where are you working? In town here?" asked Bert, for he was quite interested in the young man.
"Yes, I'm employed at the Stockton mansion."
"At the Stockton mansion?" repeated Bert, greatly surprised. What he
had heard regarding that mysterious house came freshly to his mind.
"Why, I didn't know there was any business being done there,
Mr.—er—Mr. ah—"
He paused, for it just occurred to him that he did not know the tramp's name.
The tramp—no, we shall call him that no more, for he was no longer of that class—the man, then, smiled.
"Decker is my name," he said. "Mortimer Decker, though most of my friends—what few I have left—call me Mort. As I consider you a friend of mine, you may do so, Herbert. You see I know your name, for you're sort of a public character."
"I don't know about that, but I'm glad you've gotten a place, Mort."
"Yes, after my little experience in the brook I decided to get some work to do here if possible. I heard that the man who lived in that big mansion was rich, and I thought he might want a private secretary, or a stenographer and typewriter. I learned who lived there, but when I inquired at the place an old woman said Mr. Stockton had gone away."
"I believe he has, but there seems to be something queer about it," said Bert. "No one saw him go, and, though he never used to be seen much around the village, still we did have occasional glimpses of him. Now no one has seen him for some time."