contrary, his face was clean shaven. The man was about Mark's size,
perhaps a little taller, and nearly as stout. He stood on the sagging
porch, and gazed off toward the road.

"Well, if that's the man Dick Johnson got the note from he's changed
mightily in appearance," thought Mark, as he looked at the fellow. "He
isn't very tall, and he hasn't any black mustache. But of course he may
have shaved that off, and I suppose in the dark, and when one is in a
hurry to earn a quarter, it's hard to say whether a man is tall or
short. I wonder if this can be the person we're looking for?"

Mark hardly knew what to do. He stood in the road, undecided, and
fairly stared at the man, who had left the porch, and was walking down
the weed-grown path. He was looking straight at Mark, but if the
stranger was the person who had written the note, and if he recognized
the lad, he gave no sign to that effect.

"Good afternoon," said the man, as he paused at the gap in the front
wall, where once a gate had been. "Pleasant day, isn't it."

"Ye--yes," stammered Mark, wondering what to say next.

"Live around here?" went on the man.

"Not very far off."

"Ah, then you know this old shack?"

"Well, I don't get over here, very often. Do you live here?" ventured
Mark boldly, determining to do some questioning on his own account.