"Gardner thought he heard ghosts. But ghosts don't steal molasses pie."

She looked at him solemnly. "Must one steal to get anything to eat
here?"

"I'm sorry," he cried. "I'll get you breakfast right away. What will you
have? There isn't much."

"Anything there is. But if I'm to board with you, you must let me pay my
way."

"The company is responsible for that."

Her brooding eyes were still fixed upon him. "You actually are the
agent," she mused. "That's quaint."

"I don't see anything quaint about it. Now, if you'll make yourself
comfortable I'll go over to the shack and rustle something for
breakfast."

"No; I'd rather go with you. Perhaps I can help."

Such help as the guest afforded was negligible. When, from sundry of the
Sears-Roebuck cans and bottles, a condensed and preserved sort of meal
had been derived, she set to it with a good grace.

"There's more of a kick in tea than in a cocktail, I believe, when you
really need it," she remarked gratefully. "You spoke of a Mr. Gardner.
Who is he?"