“Oi dunno your feyther from Adam,” said Joe cheerfully, mopping his face with his shirt-sleeve.
“Yes, you do—old Mr. Flynt—Frog Farm.”
Joe shook his head—it seemed no longer a saint’s. “Oi never heerd nobody mention Frog Farm nowadays. It’s a dead place.” He shambled off on his many tasks with an aliveness that tightened the contraction Will felt at his heart. His father dead?
“But look here, Joe!” He pursued the factotum. “You remember me—little Will Flynt?”
“Can’t say as Oi does—moind that box now.”
“It’s my box—and I wrote to dad to meet me with a trap. Guess he got tired of fooling around.”
“There’s warious traps.” The hunchback waved a busy hand.
“No—he’s not here. And how am I to get my trunk home?”
“Bradmarsh carrier goos at three—you’re in luck.”
He heaved a parcel now into a driverless tilt-cart, where a little white dog boisterously mounted guard. “That’s ’er!” he said. “Take you too if you’re smart.”