the open fields, made him glad he had buttoned his sweater
beneath the khaki coat.

Presently he began to speculate on what sort of reception he would
have, and for the first time the possibility occurred to him that his
welcome might not be altogether cordial. You never could tell what
point of view the cranky old man would take. He thought of the dogs,
too, especially after he had left the main road and turned into the less
frequented one leading past Grimstone's place. More than once people had
been chased by them, and it wasn't exactly pleasant to picture them
rushing out at him in a body the moment he set foot in the lane.

Nevertheless, it did not occur to him to turn back. He had set out
with a definite purpose, and he meant to carry it through. To be sure,
just before reaching the lane he cut himself a stout stick, and as
the old, weather-beaten frame house came in sight he unconsciously
made his approach as noiseless as possible. He was surprised and not
a little relieved to see no signs of the animals, but when he set down
his basket and knocked briskly on the back door, the snarling uproar
that instantly arose inside plainly advertised their whereabouts.

Dale tightened his grip on the stick and strained his ears for other
sounds. He had raised his hand for a second knock when the barking
suddenly lessened a little, and above the racket came a growling
admonition in Grimstone's harsh tones:

"Wal, come in, can't you? Are you deaf?"

CHAPTER IX

AN ODD THANKSGIVING

The note of ill temper in the voice was so apparent that Dale hesitated
for a second longer. Then, with a determined movement of his head, he set
his stick against the door-casing, picked up the basket, and stepped
into the kitchen. It was a long, low room, the walls and ceiling painted
a dirty gray. Two of the three windows were tightly shuttered, so that
Dale could barely make out the bent figure seated in a rocking-chair
beside a rusty, decrepit cook-stove. At his entrance the three dogs
began to bark again, but old Grimstone silenced them with a fierce
gesture that sent them cowering under a table.

"What d' you want?" he demanded, glaring at the boy from under bushy
brows. "I don't want to buy nothin', so you'd better git out."

"I haven't anything--for sale," returned the boy, finding it a little
difficult to explain his errand. "It--it's your Thanksgiving dinner."

"Dinner!" snapped the old man. "What are you talkin' about