The big foot at the end of the long leg swung slowly back and forth.  Mr. Winslow looked absently at the roof.

“Don’t look like that!” snapped Captain Sam.  “Come out of it!  Wake up!  It always gives me the fidgets to see you settin’ gapin’ at nothin’.  What are you daydreamin’ about now, eh?”

Jed turned and gazed over his spectacles.

“I was thinkin’,” he observed, “that most likely that dog himself was crazy.  If he wasn’t he wouldn’t have got into the manger.  I never saw a dog that wanted to climb into a manger, did you, Sam?”

“Oh, confound the manger and the dog, too!  Look here, Jed; if I found you a good tenant would you rent ’em that house of yours?”

Jed looked more troubled than ever.

“Sam,” he began, “you know I’d do ’most anything to oblige you, but—­”

“Oblige me!  This ain’t to oblige me.  It’s to oblige you.”

“Oh, then I won’t do it.”

“Well, then, ’tis to oblige me.  It’ll oblige me to have you show some sense.  Come on, Jed.  These people I’ve got in mind are nice people.  They want to find a little house and they’ve come to me at the bank for advice about findin’ it.  It’s a chance for you, a real chance.”

Jed rocked back and forth.  He looked genuinely worried.

“Who are they?” he asked, after a moment

“Can’t name any names yet.”

Another period of reflection.  Then:  “City folks or Orham folks?” inquired Mr. Winslow.

“City folks.”

Some of the worried look disappeared.  Jed was plainly relieved and more hopeful.

“Oh, then they won’t want it,” he declared.  “City folks want to hire houses in the spring, not along as late in the summer as this.”

“These people do.  They’re thinkin’ of livin’ here in Orham all the year round.  It’s a first-rate chance for you, Jed.  Course, I know you don’t really need the money, perhaps, but—­well, to be real honest, I want these folks to stay in Orham—­they’re the kind of folks the town needs—­and I want ’em contented.  I think they would be contented in your house.  You let those Davidsons from Chicago have the place that summer, but you’ve never let anybody so much as consider it since.  What’s the real reason?  You’ve told me as much as a dozen, but I’ll bet anything you’ve never told me the real one.  ‘Twas somethin’ the Davidsons did you didn’t like—­but what?”

Jed’s rocking back and forth on the box became almost energetic and his troubled expression more than ever apparent.

“Now—­now, Sam,” he begged, “I’ve told you all about that ever and ever so many times.  There wasn’t anything, really.”

“There was, too.  What was it?”

Jed suffered in silence for two or three minutes.

“What was the real reason?  Out with it,” persisted Captain Hunniwell.

“Well—­well, ’twas—­’twas—­” desperately, “‘twas the squeakin’ and—­ and squealin’.”