“Gee whiz!” Babe muttered. “Here she comes! I’ll bet she’s sore!”
The kitchen door creaked open and the mysterious “she” stood on the threshold regarding the boys with curiosity rather than anger.
Tall and wiry, the woman appeared to be about fifty years of age. Her iron-gray hair was combed severely back from her ears. The gingham dress she wore was old fashioned and faded from repeated washing.
“I—I’m sorry,” Babe stammered, doffing his cap. “I—I didn’t know anyone lived here. The house looked so old and—”
“We were just passing and stopped to look at the deep well,” Brad interposed hastily. “One doesn’t see one like it very often.”
“Or a house as run down as this,” said the woman.
Plainly she had not taken offense at Babe’s remark, for she smiled and said: “You boys must be on a hike.”
Mr. Hatfield told her about the organization and introduced the boys by name. In turn, the woman said she was Mrs. Jones, a widow, and that she lived alone.
“If you’re Mrs. Jones, you must be the one Mr. Wentworth mentioned!” Dan exclaimed, recalling the name. “Do you board wards of the court?”
“I was supposed to take one—a harum-scarum lad who has a tendency to run away,” Mrs. Jones replied. “The Court promised me eight dollars a week to look after him. I need the money. But he never showed up.”