So we speeded up. And coming to Mrs. Kelly’s house, we passed quickly through the gate and followed the cinder path to the kitchen porch.
But no one came to the door when we rapped.
“Dog-gone!” growled Scoop. “All this walk for nothing.”
“Don’t overlook the fact,” I laughed, “that [[72]]we have sold seven cakes of beauty soap. Our time in coming here hasn’t been wasted.”
“Just the same,” said Scoop, “it’s a disappointment to me not to find Mrs. Kelly at home. I wanted to see her Bible and ask her some questions. For it’s important, I think, to find out all we can about the queer soap man.”
There was a short silence in which our leader thought of the money that we had taken in and counted it.
“Sixty cents. We’ll stop and settle up with the soap peddler as soon as we get back to town.”
“What’s the rush?” I inquired. “Why not sell the rest of our soap and then call on him?”
“The oftener we stop and talk with him,” said Scoop, in good wisdom, “the more we’ll be likely to find out.”
The old mill that I have mentioned in my story is a part of the Matson property and is situated directly behind the brick house where Tom lives. In his younger days Mr. Matson used to run the mill himself, grinding wheat and corn and buckwheat for the farmers. But he neglected his business after his wife’s death. In consequence his trade dropped off. Then, over a period of years, the mill was still. The machinery rusted and became worthless and the wooden water wheel [[73]]rotted to pieces. Instead of taking care of his property, as any sensible man should have done, Mr. Matson did nothing but work on puzzles.