Since he had arrived at Mason’s Corner everything that he had done seemed to give rise to gossip, and a little more of it could do no harm.

Quincy reached the Poorhouse and inquired for the keeper.  A very stout, red-faced man answered the summons.

He informed Quincy that his name was Asa Waters, and that he had been keeper of the town Poorhouse for the last ten years.

Quincy thought from his size, as he evidently weighed between three and four hundred pounds, that he had probably eaten all the food supplied for the inmates.  In reply to a direct question whether there was a man there by the name of Jim Sawyer, Mr. Waters said “yes,” but that he was sick abed and had been for the last week.

“He coughs awful,” said Waters; “in fact, I had to change his room because the rest of us couldn’t sleep.  When we tried to move him he became sort of crazy like, and it took three on us to get him out of the room and take him upstairs.  He seems sot on getting back in that room.  The other day he crawled down stairs and we found him trying to get into the room, but I had it locked and we had another fight to get him upstairs again.”

“Well,” said Quincy, “I would like to see him; it may be he is a distant relative of our family.  My father wishes me to talk with him and make the inquiry anyway.”

“What mought your name be?” asked Mr. Waters.

“My name is Quincy Adams Sawyer.”

“Oh, yes, I remember you,” said Waters.  “Wasn’t you the singer that Mr. Strout hired to come down from Boston to sing at his concert.  Strout told me he paid you $50 for singing that night, and by gosh it was worth it.”

Quincy was not a profane young man, but he had to smother an oath on hearing that.  He replied, “Yes, I sang that night.”

“And,” said Waters, “didn’t you whistle that piece, Listen to the Bobolink, fine?”

“Here, Sam,” said he to a young fellow who appeared in sight, “show this gentleman up to Jim Sawyer’s room; I’m getting kind of pussy, and I don’t go upstairs much.”

Sam performed his mission and Quincy was ushered into the room and found himself with the sick man.

“Is your name James Sawyer?” asked Quincy.

“Yes,” said the man.  “I used to be proud of it once.”

“Did you have a brother?” asked Quincy.

“Well,” said Jim, “I don’t think he would be proud of me now, so I guess I won’t claim any relationship.”

Quincy stopped for a moment.  Evidently the man’s pride would keep him from telling anything about himself.  He would try him on a new tack.  The man had a long fit of coughing.  When it had subsided, Quincy said, “It wearies you to talk.  I will do the talking, and if what I say is true you can nod your head.”  Quincy continued, “Your name is James Edward Sawyer, your brother’s name was Nathaniel.”  The man opened his eyes wide and looked steadfastly at him.  “Your father, Edward Sawyer, left you fifty thousand dollars.”  The man clutched with both hands at the quilt on the bed.  “You are about sixty years of age.”  The man nodded.  “You married a young girl who lived in the country and took her to Boston with you; her maiden name was Eunice Raymond.”