John was cutting wood beside his dwelling when Sam arrived
with his trucks, and accused him of obtaining goods under
false pretences. John was a man of few words and listened
attentively to Sam's reasoning. From the little window
of the caboose came the discordant wail of a very young
infant, and old Sam felt his claims growing more and more
shadowy.

John took the pipe from his mouth and spat once at the
woodpile. Then, jerking his thumb toward the little
window, he said briefly:

"Twins. Last night."

Sam Motherwell mounted his trucks and drove away. He knew
when he was beaten.

The house had received additions on every side, until it
seemed to threaten to run over the edge of the lot, and
looked like a section of a wrecked freight train, with
its yellow refrigerator car.

The snow had drifted up to the windows, and entirely over
the little lean-to that had been erected at the time that
little Danny had added his feeble wail to the general
family chorus.

But the smoke curled bravely up from the chimney into
the frosty air, and a snug pile of wood by the "cheek of