"What do you do for your living?" was the next
question, and the new David Anderson had an in-
spiration. His eyes had lit upon the umbrella which
he had found the night before.
"Umbrellas," he replied, laconically, and the
other man nodded. Men with sheaves of umbrellas,
mended or in need of mending, had always been
familiar features for him.
Then David assumed the initiative; possessed
of an honorable business as well as home, he grew
bold. "Any objection to my staying here?" he
asked.
The other man eyed him sharply. "Smoke
much?" he inquired.
"Smoke a pipe sometimes."
"Careful with your matches?"
David nodded.
"That's all I think about," said the farmer.
"These woods is apt to catch fire jest when I'm
about ready to cut. The man that squatted here
before -- he died about a month ago -- didn't smoke.
He was careful, he was."
"I'll be real careful," said David, humbly and
anxiously.
"I dun'no' as I have any objections to your stay-
ing, then," said the farmer. "Somebody has always
squat here. A man built this shack about twenty
year ago, and he lived here till he died. Then
t'other feller he came along. Reckon he must have
had a little money; didn't work at nothin'! Raised
some garden-truck and kept a few chickens. I took
them home after he died.
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