“That’s because I have been working most of my life—­and I guess livin’ in the woods all the time makes a chap seem old.”

“And you’ve lived in the woods?”

“With my uncle.  I can’t remember anybody else belongin’ to me—­not very well.  Pete Tilton is his name.  He’s been a guide and hunter all his life.  And of late years he got so queer—­before they took him away——­”

“Took him away?” interrupted Ruth, “What do you mean by that?”

“Why, I’ll tell you,” said Jerry, slowly.  “He got wild towards the last.  It was something about his money and papers that he lost.  He kep’ ’em in a box somewhere.  There was a landslide at the west end of the island.”

“The island?  What island?”

“Cliff Island.  That’s where we lived.  Uncle Pete said he owned half the island, but Rufe Blent cheated him out of it.  That’s what made him so savage with Blent, and he come pretty near killin’ him.  At least, Blent told it that way.

“So they took poor Uncle Pete into court, and they said he wasn’t safe to be at large, and sent him to the county asylum.  Then—­well, there wasn’t no manner o’ use my stayin’ around there.  Rufe Blent warned me off the island.  So I started out to hunt a job.”

The details were rather vague, but Ruth felt a little diffident about asking for further particulars.  Besides, it was not long before Uncle Jabez came home.

“What do ye reckon your Aunt Alvirah keeps that spare room for?” demanded the old miller, with his usual growl, when Ruth explained about Jerry.  “For to put up tramps?”

“Oh, Uncle! he isn’t just a tramp!”

“I’d like to know what ye call it, Niece Ruth?” grumbled Uncle Jabez.

“Think how he saved Jane Ann!  That car was rolling right down the embankment.  He pulled her through the window and almost the next moment the car slid the rest of the way to the bottom, and lots of people—­people in the chairs next to her—­were badly hurt.  Oh, Uncle! he saved her life, perhaps.”

“That ain’t makin’ it any dif’rent,” declared Uncle Jabez.  “He’s a tramp and nobody knows anything about him.  Why didn’t Davison send him to the hospital?  The doc’s allus mixin’ us up with waifs an’ strays.  He’s got more cheek than a houn’ pup——­”

“Now, Jabez!” cried the little old lady, who had been bending over the stove.  “Don’t ye make yourself out wuss nor you be.  That poor boy ain’t doin’ no harm to the bed.”

“Makin’ you more work, Alviry.”

“What am I good for if it ain’t to work?” she demanded, quite fiercely.  “When I can’t work I want ye sh’d take me back to the poor farm where ye got me—­an’ where I’d been these last ’leven years if it hadn’t been for your charity that you’re so ’fraid folks will suspect——­”

“Charity!” broke in Uncle Jabez.  “Ha!  Yes! a fat lot of charity I’ve showed you, Alviry Boggs.  I reckon I’ve got my money’s wuth out o’ you back an’ bones.”