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Grandma Watterby had the weight of years upon her, and she could not remember the road that led to the farm she had often visited. Though in the days that followed she recollected various bits of information about Bob's mother and her life as a girl, to which he listened eagerly, she was utterly unable to locate the farm.
That afternoon they found Grandma Watterby braiding rugs under the one large tree in the side yard, and she welcomed them warmly. "I was just wishing for some one to talk to," she said cheerfully. "Can't you sit a while? There isn't much for young 'uns to do, and I says to your uncle it was a good thing there was two of you at least you can talk."
The Watterby place was a curious mixture of primitive farming methods, ranching tactics, and Indian folklore, with a sprinkling of furtherest East and West for good measure. Will Watterby attributed his cosmopolitan plan of work to the influence of the ever-changing hired man. "They come and they go, mostly go," he was fond of saying.
A cackle from the hen yard answered her question and put her mind at ease. Where there were chickens, there would be people as a matter of course. They might have gone away to spend the day. "I'll take Clover out to the barn and give her a drink of water," decided Betty. "No one would mind that. Grandma Watterby says a farmer's barn is always open to his neighbor's stock."
The packing was hastened, and soon the old farmhouse was stripped and dismantled, the trunks stored in the Watterby attic, the furniture carried off to the homes of those who bought it, and the key delivered to Dave Thorne, the section foreman, who would deliver it to the superintendent.
"Dear! dear!" mourned Grandma Watterby, a mist gathering on her spectacles. "Poor, pretty Faith Saunders! In the poorhouse! The Saunders was never what you might call rich, but I guess none of 'em ever saw the inside of the almshouse. And David Henderson was as fine a young man as you'd want to see. When Faith married him and he took her away from here, folks thought they'd go far in the world.
"Bob help me skin him," he announced quietly. "You go in. When the fur is dry and clean, you have it for your neck-piece." Betty thanked him and ran away to tell Mr. Gordon and Grandma Watterby of her present. A handsome fox skin was not to be despised, and Betty was all girl when it came to pretty clothes and furs. Ki and Bob came in to breakfast, and the talk turned to the oil fire. Mr.
"I'm so hungry," announced Betty, coming out of her room, once more trim and neat, and sniffing the delicious odor of hot waffles. "I wonder if I could pin my hair up in a towel and dry it after lunch?" "Of course you may," said Mrs. Will Watterby warmly. "Did you fix a place for Betty, Grandma?" "What a silly question, Emma," reproved old Grandma Watterby severely.
The family, they had discovered at supper the night before, consisted of Grandma Watterby, her son Will, a man of about forty-five, and the daughter-in-law, Emma, a tall, silent woman with a wrinkled, leathery skin, a harsh voice, and the kindest heart in the world. An Indian helped Mr. Watterby run the farm.
Manners was a Flame City youth, a lad of about eighteen, and the son of the postmaster. Bob and Betty ran down to the road to see him as he stopped his motorcycle with skillful abruptness. "Will Watterby told me you were out here," he called as soon as he saw Bob. "Say, two more wells caught last night, and they say it's absolutely the biggest fire we've ever had.
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