"There is a pistol upstairs in my bureau that belonged to Mr. Canby. I
will let you have that, though of course I trust you won't need it."

"Is it loaded?"

"Yes; I loaded it last week. I will lay it out before I go. Be very
careful with it."

"I will," I promised her.

I hurried down to the barn, and in a few moments had Jerry hooked up
to the family turnout. As I was about to jump in and drive to the
house, a man confronted me.

He was a stranger, about forty years of age, with black hair and
shaggy beard and eyebrows. He was seedily dressed, and altogether
looked to be a disreputable character.

"Say, young man, can you help a fellow as is down on his luck?" he
asked in a hoarse tone.

"Who are you?" I responded.

"I'm a moulder from Factoryville. The shop's shut down, and I'm out of
money and out of work."

"How long have you been out?"

"Two weeks."