“You say you're campers?”
“That's what we are.”
“Is your tent near by?”
“Blest if we know. If we did, we shouldn't be here.”
It was plain to the three of them, standing back in the dark, that Beveridge, for reasons of his own, was moving very cautiously, and equally plain that the little man had some reason for being cautious too. It was hard to think that any honest farmer, living so lonely a life, would be so downright inhospitable.
“And you say you want something to
“Well, now,”—there was no trace of impatience in the special agent's voice,—“that's just as you like. We don't want to impose on you; and of course we're more than willing to pay for what we get.”
“Well, I dunno. I s'pose you might come in. Maybe we've got a little bread and milk.”
The kitchen was not a large room. The floor was bare, as were the walls, saving a few county-fair advertisements in the form of colored lithographs. A thin, colorless, dulleyed little woman was seated beside a pine table, sewing by the light of a kerosene lamp. The third member of the family, a boy of fourteen, did not appear until a moment later. When the sound of the opening door reached his ears, he was lying flat on his bed, chin propped on hands, feverishly boring through a small volume in a flashy paper binding.
Beveridge, as they all found seats, was taking in the farmer, noting his shifting eyes, and his clothes, which were nothing more than a suit of torn overalls.