ye all summer, he sezs. Seems like a knowin', happy
kind er young feller."

They were pulling the pails from the rear boot,
each one tied up in a wheat-sack, with a card marked
"Ezra Pollard" sewed on the outside to distinguish
it from the property of other East Branch settlers
up and down the road.

Oliver had slipped from his seat and was tugging
at his hair trunk. He did not know that the long,
thin, slab-sided old fellow in a slouch hat, hickory
shirt crossed by one suspender, and heavy cowhide
boots was his prospective landlord. He supposed him
to be the hired man, and that he would find Mr. Pollard
waiting for him in the little sitting-room with
the windows full of geraniums that looked so inviting
and picturesque.

"Marve sez you're lookin' fur me. Come along.
Glad ter see ye."

"Are you Mr. Pollard?" His surprise not only
marked the tones of his voice but the expression of
his face.

"No, jes' Ezry Pollard, that's all. Hope Mr.
Slade's up and hearty?"