“Hello!” he said.  “You’re up ahead of time, aren’t you?  It isn’t six yet.”

Atkins grinned.  “No,” he answered, “’tain’t! not quite.  But sence Ezry cleared out I’ve been a kind of human alarm clock, as you might say.  Feelin’ all right, are you?”

“Yes, thank you.  I say,” holding up the pipe and regarding it respectfully, “is this tobacco of yours furnished by the government?”

“No.  Some I bought myself last time I was over to the Center.  Why, what’s the matter with it?  Ain’t it good?”

“Perhaps so.”

“Then what made you ask?  Ain’t it strong enough?”

“Strong enough!  You’re disposed to be sarcastic.  It’s stronger than I am.  What do they flavor it with—­tar?”

“Say, let’s see that plug.  That ain’t smokin’ tobacco.”

“What is it, then—­asphalt?”

“Why, haw! haw!  That’s a piece of Ezry’s chewin’.  Some he left when he went away.  It’s ‘Honest Friend.’  ’Tis flavored up consider’ble.  And you tried to smoke it!  Ho! ho!”

The young man joined in the laugh.

“That explains why it bubbled so,” he said.  “I used twenty-two matches, by actual count, and then gave it up.  Bah!” he smacked his lips disgustedly and made a face:  “’Honest Friend’—­is that the name of it?  Meaning that it’ll stick to you through life, I presume.  Water has no effect on the taste; I’ve tried it.”

“Maybe some supper might help.  I’ll wash the dinner dishes and start gettin’ it.  All there seems to be to this job of mine just now is washin’ dishes.  And how I hate it!”

He reentered the kitchen.  Then he uttered an exclamation: 

“Why, what’s become of the dishes?” he demanded.  “I left ’em here on the table.”

Brown arose from the bench and sauntered to the door.

“I washed them,” he said.  “I judged that you would have to if I didn’t, and it seemed the least I could do, everything considered.”

“Sho!  You washed the dishes, hey?  Where’d you put ’em?”

“In the closet there.  That’s where they belong, isn’t it?”

Seth went to the closet, took a plate from the pile and inspected it.

“Um!” he grunted, turning the plate over, “that ain’t such a bad job.  Not so all-fired bad, for a green hand.  What did you wash ’em with?”

“A cloth I found hanging by the sink.”

“I see.  Yes, yes.  And you wiped ’em on—­what?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, I didn’t see any towels in sight, except that one on the door; and, for various reasons, I judged that wasn’t a dish towel.”

“Good judgment.  ’Tisn’t.  Go on.”

“So I hunted around, and in the closet in the parlor, or living room, or whatever you call it, I found a whole stack of things that looked like towels; so I used one of those.”

“Is this it?” Seth picked up a damp and bedraggled cloth from the table.

“That’s it.  I should have hung it up somewhere, I suppose.  I’ll lose my job if I don’t look out.”