Andy hurried down the Centreville turnpike.  He walked along briskly, more to get out of possible range of Miss Lavinia than with any other distinct motive in mind.  Still, Andy had “business” in view.  That burned down haystack haunted him.  Somehow he must square himself with Mr. Dale, he said.  He fancied he had found a way.

Andy did not pause until he was fully a mile down the highway.  He felt safe from interruption now, and sat down on an old log and mused in a dreamy, drifting sort of a way.

The sound of approaching wagon wheels disturbed him in the midst of a depressing reverie.

“It’s Mr. Dale,” said Andy, getting up from the log and viewing the approaching team.  “I wanted to see you, Mr. Dale,” he spoke aloud as the carry-all came abreast of him.

“Oh, hello, you, Wildwood,” spoke the farmer with a grin.  “Playing hookey, eh?”

“No, sir,” answered Andy frankly.  “I was expelled from school this morning.”

“Do tell me now!” said Dale.  “Want a lift?”

“No, sir,” answered Andy, “I just wanted to take up a minute of your time.  I’m sorry, Mr. Dale, I don’t suppose you think any too much of me already, and when I tell you—­”

“Hey?  Ha! ha!” chuckled Dale.  “Think I’m sore on you because of that calf business?  Not at all, not at all.  Why, I got double price for the critter, see?”

“There’s something else,” announced Andy seriously.  “The truth is, Mr. Dale, I burned down one of your haystacks about an hour ago.”

“What!  You burned one of my haystacks?  Which one—­which one?” demanded Dale, growing pale with excitement.

“The little one to the north-east of the field,” explained Andy.  “I should think it held between two and three tons.”

Farmer Dale dropped the lines and jumped down into the road from the wagon, whip in hand.  All his jubilant slyness deserted him.  He began to get frightfully worked up over Andy’s news.

“Wait a minute,” pleaded Andy.  “Don’t get excited till I explain.  I managed to save the other stacks.  It was all an accident, but I want to pay the damage.  Yes, I’ll pay you, Mr. Dale.”

“You’ll have to, you bet on that!” snorted the farmer wrathfully.  “I’ll go to your aunt right off with the bill.”

“Don’t do it, Mr. Dale,” advised Andy.  “She preaches lots about honesty and responsibility and all that, but she’s mighty close when it comes to the dollars.  She wouldn’t pay you a cent, no, sir, but I will.  That hay is worth about twenty dollars, I reckon, Mr. Dale?”

“Well, yes, it is,” nodded the farmer.  “Good timothy is scarce, and that was a prime lot.”

“I’ve got no money, of course,” went on Andy, “but I thought this:  couldn’t you give me some work to do and let me pay it out in that way?  I’ll do my level best to—­”

“Oh! that’s your precious proposition, is it?” snarled Mr. Dale, switching the whip about furiously.  “No, I couldn’t.  The hand I’ve got now is idle half the time.  See here, Wildwood, arson is a pretty serious crime.  You’d better square this thing some way.  In fact you’ve got to do it, or there’s going to be trouble.”