“Is there a man named Joel Barton living hereabouts?” he asked.

The station master took his cigar from his mouth and surveyed his questioner with some curiosity.

“Does he owe you money?” he inquired.

“No,” answered Ford, impatiently. “Will you answer my question?”

“You needn't be in such a pesky hurry,” drawled the station master. “Yes, he lives up the road a piece.”

“How far is a piece?”

“Well, maybe a mile.”

“Straighten?”

“Yes.”

“Is there any way of riding?”

“Well, stranger, I've got a team myself. Is that boy with you?”

“Yes.”

“I'll take you over for half a dollar.”

“Can you go at once?”

“Yes.”

“Then it's a bargain.”

The station master, whose house was only three minutes' walk away, appeared in a reasonable time with a farm wagon², drawn³ by an old horse that had seen better days, it is to be hoped, for she was a miserable-looking mare⁴.

“Jump in, Herbert,” said Ford.

The boy obeyed, and sat on the front seat, between the driver and his abductor.

“I suppose the horse is warranted not to run away?” said Ford, regarding the animal with a smile.

“He ran away with me once,” was the unexpected answer.

“When was that?”

“'Bout fifteen years ago,” replied the driver, with grim humor. “I reckon he's steadied down by this time.”

“It looks like it,” said Ford.

“Know Joel Barton?” asked the station master, after a pause.

“I saw him once when I was a boy.”

“Any relation?”

“He married a cousin of my stepmother. What sort of a man is he?”

“He's a no-account man—shif'less, lazy—drinks.”

“That agrees with what I have heard. How about his wife?”

“She's smart enough. If he was like her they'd live comfortably. She has a hard time with him and Abner—Abner's her son, and just like his father, only doesn't drink yet. Like as not he will when he gets older.”

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