"Of course they won't. The idea of a pauper bein' allowed a fiddle
to play on! Why, it's ridiculous!"

"What do you mean?" demanded Philip, who now began to comprehend the
meaning of this thick-witted visitor. "What have I got to do with
the town, or with paupers?"

"Why, you're goin' to the poorhouse, ain't you?"

"Certainly not!" answered Philip, with flashing eyes.

"I guess you're mistaken," said Nick coolly. "Squire Pope was over
to our shop this mornin', and he told dad that the seleckmen were
goin' to send you there after the auction."

Philip's eyes flashed angrily. He felt insulted and outraged. Never
for a moment had he conceived the idea that any one would regard him
as a candidate for the poorhouse.

He had an honorable pride in maintaining himself, and would rather
get along on one meal a day, earned by himself in honest
independence, than be indebted to public charity even for a
luxurious support.

"Squire Pope doesn't know what he's talking about," retorted Philip,
who had to exercise some self-restraint not to express himself more
forcibly "and you can tell him so when you see him. I am no more
likely to go to the poorhouse than you are!"