“No, I b’lieve not to-day, bub,” replied Bradley. “I’ve jest got off ‘n the train an’ stopped in to ax a few questions. The’ used to be a woman livin’ on the Starks place ten year ago—a widder woman, Mis’ Jason Bradley; kin you tell me whar I’d be likely to find ’er now?”
“I don’t know no sech er person,” said the boy; “mebby Mr. Summers kin tell.”
“You mean Joe Bradley’s mother,” said the storekeeper, approaching—“the feller that was shot over at Holland’s bar?”
“She’s the one,” said Jim, breathlessly; “is she still alive?”
“I hain’t heerd nothin’ to the contrary, but I don’t know jest whar she is now. She was powerful hard up last winter, an’ somebody tuk ’er to live with ‘em—seems to me it was one o’ the Sanders boys.”
A woman entered the door and set her basket on the counter.
“Mis’ Wade ’ll be able to tell you,” continued the merchant, turning to her; “she lives over in that direction.”
“What’s that, Mr. Summers?” she asked, carefully untying the cloth that covered some yellow rolls of butter.
“This gentleman was askin’ about the widow Bradley, Joe’s mother; do you know whar she is?”
“She’s livin’ with Alf Sanders,” replied the woman; “I seed ’er thar soap-bilin’ as I driv by last Tuesday was a week. Are you any kin o’ hern?” and she eyed Bradley curiously from head to foot.