A short, bullet-headed old man, with close-cropped, whitish-yellow
hair, atop of which was a boy's baseball cap, his face smoothly shaven
and deeply lined, and the stain of tobacco at either corner of his
mouth, was standing on the platform. He was not a nice looking old man
at all, he was dressed in shabby and patched garments, and his little
eyes seemed so sly that they were even trying to hide from each other
on either side of a hawksbill nose.

He began to eye Ruth curiously as the girl approached, and she, seeing
that he was the only person who gave her any attention, jumped to the
conclusion that this was Uncle Jabez. The thought shocked her. She
instinctively feared and disliked this queer looking old man. The lump
in her throat that would not be swallowed almost choked her again, and
she winked her eyes fast to keep from crying.

She would, in her fear and disappointment, have passed the old man by
without speaking had he not stepped in front of her.

"Where d'ye wanter go, Miss?" he whined, looking at her still more
sharply out of his narrow eyes. "Yeou be a stranger here, eh?"

"Yes, sir," admitted Ruth.

"Where are you goin'?" asked the man again, and Ruth had enough Yankee
blood in her to answer the query by asking:

"Are you Mr. Jabez Potter?"

"Me Jabez Potter? Why, ef I was Jabe Potter I'd be owing myself money,