"Oh, she's the old witch that lives down at the bend o' the creek."

"What? Has she got a granddaughter named Biddy?" said Yan, suddenly
remembering that his ancient ally came from this part of Sanger.

"Oh, my! Hain't she? Ain't Biddy a peach--drinks like a fish, talks
everybody to death about the time she resided in Bonnerton. Gits a
letter every mail begging her to come back and 'reside' with them some
more."

"Ain't this fine," said Yan, as he sat on a pile of Fir boughs in the
wigwam.

"Looks like the real thing," replied Sam from his seat on the other
side. "But say, Yan, don't make any more fire; it's kind o' warm here,
an' there seems to be something wrong with that flue--wants sweepin',
prob'ly--hain't been swep' since I kin remember."

The fire blazed up and the smoke increased. Just a little of it
wandered out of the smoke-hole at the top, then it decided that this
was a mistake and thereafter positively declined to use the vent. Some
of it went out by chinks, and a large stream issued from the door, but
by far the best part of it seemed satisfied with the interior of the
wigwam, so that in a minute or less both boys scrambled out. Their
eyes were streaming with smoke-tears and their discomfiture was
complete.

"'Pears to me," observed Sam, "like we got them holes mixed. The dooer
should 'a 'been at the top, sence the smoke has a fancy for usin' it,