"No?" he sings out, setting up straight and staring at me. "Not really?"

"You bet," I says. "Now down in this part of the chart we've come to
think more of that young lady than a cat does of the only kitten left
out of the bag in the water bucket. Let me tell you about her."

So I went ahead, telling him how Mabel had come to us, why she come, how
well she was liked, how much she liked us, and a whole lot more. I guess
he knew the most of it, but he was too polite not to act interested.

"And now, all at once," says I, "she gives up being happy and well and
contented, and won't eat, and cries, and says she's going to leave.
There's a reason, as the advertisement folks say, and I'm going to make
a guess at it. I believe it calls itself Jones."

His under jaw pushed out a little and his eyebrows drew together. But
all he said was, "Well?"

"Yes," I says. "And now, Mr. Jones, I'm old, as I said afore, and nosey
maybe, but I like that girl. Perhaps I might come to like you, too; you
can't tell. Under them circumstances, and with the understanding that
it didn't go no farther, maybe you might give me a glimpse of the lay
of the land. Possibly I might have something to say that would help. I'm
fairly white underneath, if I be sunburned. What do you think about it?"

He didn't answer right off; seemed to be chewing it over. After a spell
he spoke.

"Mr. Wingate," says he, "with the understanding that you mentioned, I