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For an instant Richard Milne did not know whether or not to pass on. Of course, he would not stay here by deliberate choice, even if he could be accommodated. Still, there was his curiosity. 'Boys!' he called. 'Is this where Mr. Burnstile lives?'

They nudged each other to go and see what the man wanted. Finally, the second boy, the doughty wrestler, left the others and came over to the fence, turning his head in the wind as though to listen, his yellow hair ruffling. 'Can't hear. Wind's wrong way.'

'Is this where Mr. Burnstile lives? I mean, ah, Bill Burnstile?'

'Why, that's me! Oh, you mean my dad. Yes, he lives here. He's cutting hay. Will any of us do?'

The man smiled. 'Yes. Your father was out West for a time, wasn't he? Well, you tell him that Dick Milne was here. Just see if he remembers.'

'Ouch! That's Poison Ivy.' The boy had been leaning too close to the fence. 'What? Oh, all right. I'll tell him.' With a last look of wonder at the clothes of the stranger he was gone, skipping into the midst of the other children, who in the meantime had approached nearer—like steam melting into a cloud. The girl with the forgotten cat dangling looked after him.