In an unpainted frame house lived Mr. Nahum Sprague. In New England such a building would hardly have cost over five hundred dollars, but here it had been erected¹ at more than double the expense by the original owner. When he became out of health and left California it was bought for a trifling² price by Nahum Sprague.

 

The letter was a man of forty-five with small eyes and a face prematurely³ wrinkled. He was well-to-do, but how he had gained his money no one knew. He and his wife, however, were mean and parsimonious⁴.

 

They had one son, a boy of fifteen, who resembled them physically⁵ and mentally. He was named Oscar, after a gentleman of wealth, in the hope that at his death the boy would be remembered. Unfortunately for Oscar the gentleman died without a will and his namesake received nothing.

 

The disappointed parents would gladly have changed the boy's name, but Oscar would not hear of it, preferring the name that had become familiar.

 

This was the family whose grudging⁶ hospitality had embittered⁷ the last days of John Lillis, and to them he was obliged to commit the temporary guardianship⁸ of his little son Philip.

 

In the field adjoining, Philip Lillis, a small pale boy, was playing when Oscar Sprague issued from the house.

 

"Come here, you little brat⁹!" he said harshly.

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