the ordinary for such a sale to take place at this season of the year.
Hitherto, it had occurred at the last of December. But this was an
exceptional case, and one in which all were keenly interested.

"I hear he is stark crazy," Mrs. Munson was saying to a neighbour,
Peter McQueen, "and that he has a funny notion in his head."

"Should say so," McQueen replied. "Any man who has lived as he has for
months must be pretty well off his base. Why, he didn't have a scrap
of food in the house when he was found by Jim Trask one morning the
last of April. Jim has been keeping him ever since."

"Isn't he able to work?" Mrs. Munson inquired.

"Seems not. I guess he's a scholar or something like that, and did
some book-keeping in the city until he drifted this way. He must have
had a little money to live as long as he has. He's always been a
mystery to me."

"And to everybody else, I guess."

"Yes, so it appears. But it's a great pity that we've got to be
burdened with the likes of him. Our taxes are heavy enough now without
having to take care of this strange pauper. We've got too many on our
hands already for our good."

"But do you know anything about that queer notion of his, Pete?" Mrs.
Munson asked.

"Ho, ho, I've heard about it, and I guess it's true all right. He's in