"I think there's something underhand about him. He seems to me like a cat that purrs and rubs herself against you, but has claws concealed, and is open to scratch when she gets ready."
Ben laughed.
"The comparison does you credit, Frank," said he. "There's something in it, too. Mr. Craven is like a cat—that is, in his ways; but I hope he won't show his claws."
"When he does I shall be ready for him," said Frank, stoutly. "I am not afraid of him, but I don't like the idea of having such a person in the family."
They had arrived at this point in the conversation when they were met by a tall man, of dark complexion, who was evidently a stranger in the village. In a small town of two thousand inhabitants, where every person is known to every other, a strange face attracts attention, and the boys regarded this man with curiosity. He paused as they neared him, and, looking from one to the other, inquired:
"Can you direct me to Mr. Craven's office?"
The two boys exchanged glances.
Frank answered:
"It is that small building on the left-hand side of the street, but I am not sure whether he is there yet."