“You’ve been to his country place?”
“Only wunst. Mostly they have one o’ them scientific plumber fellers from Boston.” The Elder’s tone was as essence of gall and wormwood. “Wunst I had a job there, though, an’ I seen young Blair moonin’ around the grounds with a man nurse.”
“Quite a place, I hear,” suggested Kent.
“Sailor Milt Smith is the feller that can tell you about the place as it used to be. Here he comes, up the street.”
He thrust his head out of the door and called. Sailor Smith, sturdy and white, entered and greeted Kent courteously.
“Mr. Dennett was saying,” remarked Kent, “that you know something of the history of Hedgerow House, as I believe they call it.”
“They call it!” repeated the old sailor. “Who calls it? If you mean the Blair place, that’s Hogg’s Haven, that is! You can’t wipe out that name while there’s a man living as knew the place at its worst. Old Captain Hogg built it and lived in it and died in it. And if there’s a fryin’-pan in hell, the devil is fryin’ bacon out of old Hogg to-day for the things he done in that house.”
“How long since did he die?”
“Oh, twenty year back.”
“And the house was sold soon after?”