Just as she reached the little station a burly form confronted her, and the coarse voice of Matt Jenkins, the keeper of the Hickorytown Poor Farm, growled a word of greeting.
“Been up to visit the old folks, I s’pose,” he said, sneeringly. “Waal, it’s well you came now, fer they won’t be long at the homestead. They’ll be a boardin’ with me at the Poor Farm in a week or so.”
“Are you sure?” asked Marion, coldly, as she turned away from him.
“Waal, five hundred-dollar bills don’t grow on bushes,” he said, sneeringly, “an’ if Sile Johnson don’t get his money, he’ll turn ’em out the first day of Janooary.”
“Silas Johnson is a brute!” said Marion, sharply.
“’Tain’t sweetened his nature any tew marry Sal,” said Matt Jenkins, coarsely, “fer, with all her shortcomin’s, he’d ruther hev married Dollie.”
Marion turned her back on him without a word. The train was approaching, she could see the headlight in the distance.
“Bert Jackson got killed—s’pose yew heerd of it,” said Jenkins, in her ear. “I reckin he got tew smart with them cable cars—thet’s usually the end of country boys and gals thet think they’re smart enough tew git on in the city.”
“Bert was the smartest boy that the Poor Farm ever held,” said Marion, suddenly, turning square around. “I helped him to run away from the Poor Farm that night, and I only wish that I could help them all to get away from your cruel treatment, Matt Jenkins.”