The other grinned faintly. "You get money for watching 'em until they can be brought in and buried proper, and money is not easy to come by. If there's a man already watching these, that would be Joe Mannis. He combs the beach night and day after storms, and he's got as much money as most people. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like something to eat before I go on to Three Points."
"That we can give you," the farmer said. "Come."
When the horse would have followed them to the house, the Dutch farmer looked quizzically at Ramsay. The boy grinned.
"He's not mine. He was on the Holter and we swam ashore together. Without him I might not have made it."
"Then he is yours," the farmer said. "By right of salvage he is yours. But Marta, she wouldn't like a horse in the house."
"It's hardly the place for a horse," Ramsay agreed. "Can we leave him here?"
"Yaah."
The farmer opened the barnyard gate and Ramsay walked in. The horse followed willingly. Ramsay stepped out and shut the gate. He saw the little horse, its head over the bars, watching him as he walked toward the house.
It was a clean house, and a scrubbed and shiny one. Even the big flat stone that served as a back doorstep had almost an antiseptic cleanliness. The house was filled with the odors of freshly baked bread and spice and canned jam and curing hams. Ramsay smiled at the slim, pleasant girl who met them at the door.