“Oh, yes, that’s out in the East End,” Cora said. “We have quite an up-to-date fire house in Chelton Center.”
“Well, that was good enough for me,” he asserted. “But come along and I’ll show you my shack. Freddie will be surprised at my new decorations.”
Up the little board walk to a path through the woods the three tramped. Denny Shane was popular with young folks; even the mischievous boys who would occasionally untie his boat before a storm had no reason to fear his wrath, for such pranks were quickly forgotten.
“And the mother, Freddie?” he asked. “How’s she gettin’ on?”
“Well, she worries a good deal,” the girl replied. “But I keep telling her it must come right in time.”
“Sure it will. The rascals that would do wrong to a widder couldn’t prosper. ’Taint lucky. But they’re foxy. Did you hear anything new?”
“Yes, but not much that is substantial. My friend and I want to see you to find out all that you may know about it. Perhaps there is some clue we have been overlooking, that you could give us.”
“Well, you’re welcome to all I know. But here we are. No need to unlock my door,” he said as he saw Cora smile at his unceremonious entrance to the shack. “Them that has nothin’ has nothin’ to fear.”
A surprising little place, indeed, the girls were shown into. Neat and orderly, yet convenient and practical, was Denny Shane’s home. There was a stove and a mantel, a table, two chairs and a long bench. Pieces of rag carpet indicated the most favored spots—those to be lived on.
“And now, Freddie,” began Denny, drawing out two chairs, “what do you think of my housekeeping?”