"Only him and his wife there. I reckon they know the whole story by heart. Tell Mr. Foxway that I sent you for the book. Why, it is worth a five-mile ride to get a look at the farmer and his wife."
Mrs. Foxway was certainly a curious little creature, with a withered face and weasel eyes. She received Owen very kindly, invited him into the house, and, when informed of the object of his visit, went at once to get the book. "Robinson Crusoe," however, seemed by no means desirous of making Owen's acquaintance, for Mrs. Foxway, after searching every room in the house, upsetting a table and breaking several pieces of china-ware, finally concluded that old Robinson had run away. She insisted, however, that he could not have gone a great distance, for her husband had him in his hands that very morning, while she was preparing breakfast. She informed Owen that Mr. Foxway would soon be home for dinner, and assured him that her husband was never known to misplace anything, and that if the book had not left the house of its own accord, he would find it the moment he came. She then returned to the kitchen to continue her work, and Owen was left alone.
"Here he is! Here he is!" screeched little weasel-eyes, soon after she had gone into the kitchen.
"Mr. Foxway has returned rather early," mused Owen. "But why should his coming create such excitement?"
"Hiding in the flour barrel! Hiding in the flour barrel!" called out weasel-eyes in the most alarming way.
"Hiding in the flour barrel!" repeated Owen to himself. "Perhaps he did not want to give me that book."
"Ha! ha! All covered with flour!" came the screechy voice from the kitchen.
"If he didn't want to give me the book, why didn't he say so," thought Owen.
"O mister! mister! Come and look at him before I dust him off with the turkey-wing," cried the little woman.
Owen started toward the kitchen expecting to find a wee little man sprinkled with flour, but Mrs. Foxway was the only one there, standing near a barrel, with the turkey-wing duster in her right hand.