“Yes,” said Johnny, struggling to his feet and standing there unsteadily, “yes, I think it would. Lead on, friend. Sort of map out the route for me, will you? I’m a stranger in these parts.”
“Thought you might be,” chuckled Ben. “Don’t have many visitors, I don’t, an’ most of ’em’s what you’d call of an undesirable class—bums that’s been run off the parks, mostly. Me—I’m no bum. I earn my living. I feed the chickens.”
Johnny thought that a rather strange occupation in a city of three million. Since he was too busy watching his steps over the irregular surface of made land to give attention to other things, he let the thing stand as it was for the present.
“Probably just a way of saying something else, I guess; hasn’t a thing to do with real poultry,” was his mental comment.
In a surprisingly short time Johnny found himself nearing that side of the island next to the lake, and a moment later was led to a spot where red coals glowed in a sort of out-of-doors fireplace fashioned from broken bits of brick.
“Here’s my house,” said Ben Zook, a touch of pride in his tone. “It’s not everyone that lives in a brick house these days.”
At first Johnny thought he referred to the rude fireplace and was prepared to laugh; but, as he turned about he caught sight of a dark, cavern-like hole in the side of a great mound of clay. Even as he looked his newly found friend lighted a candle. The mellow glow of this tiny lighting plant revealed three walls of brick and mortar and a roof of wood. The whole place was not over ten feet square, and the ceiling was barely above his head. There were no windows and no door, but the end next to the fire stood open and that served the place of both.
“What do you think of it?” asked Ben Zook.
“I think,” said Johnny heartily, “that had Robinson Crusoe come upon a home like this on his island he would have wept for joy.”
“Why, so he would, Johnny, so he would!” exclaimed Ben, more than pleased by this compliment to his extraordinary abode.