"No, marm," responded Zene humbly.

"We must keep together," said the head of the caravan.

"Yes, marm," responded Zene earnestly.

"Well, now, you may drive ahead and keep the carriage in sight till
it's dinner-time and we come to a good place to halt."

Bobaday said he believed he would get in with Zene and try the wagon
awhile. Springs and cushions had become tiresome. He half-stood on
the tongue, to bring his legs down on a level with Zene's, and
enjoyed the jolting in every piece of his backbone. He had had a
surfeit of woman-society. Even the horsey smell of Zene's clothes was
found agreeable. And above all, he wanted to talk about J. D.
Matthews, and tell the terrors of a bottomless ford and a house with
a strange-sounding cellar.

"But the man was the funniest thing," said Bobaday. "He just talked
poetry all the time, and Grandma said he was daft. I'd like to talk
that way myself, but I can't make it jee."

Zene observed mysteriously, that there were some queer folks in this
section.

Yes, Bobaday admitted; the landlord was as Dutch as sour-krout.

Zene observed that all the queer folks wasn't Dutch. He shook his
head and looked so steadily at a black stump that Robert knew his