Needless to say Jed Winslow did no speculating concerning his tenant’s “past.”  Having settled the question of that tenancy definitely and, as he figured it, forever, he put the matter entirely out of his mind and centered all his energies upon the new variety of mill, the gull which was to flap its wings when the wind blew.  Barbara was, of course, much interested in the working out of this invention, and her questions were many.  Occasionally Mrs. Armstrong came into the shop.  She and Jed became better acquainted.

The acquaintanceship developed.  Jed formed a daily habit of stopping at the Armstrong door to ask if there were any errands to be done downtown.  “Goin’ right along down on my own account, ma’am,” was his invariable excuse.  “Might just as well run your errands at the same time.”  Also, whenever he chopped a supply of kindling wood for his own use he chopped as much more and filled the oilcloth-covered box which stood by the stove in the Armstrong kitchen.  He would not come in and sit down, however, in spite of Barbara’s and her mother’s urgent invitation; he was always too “busy” for that.

But the time came when he did come in, actually come in and sit down to a meal.  Barbara, of course, was partially responsible for this amazing invitation, but it was Heman Taylor’s old brindle tomcat which really brought it to pass.  The cat in question was a disreputable old scalawag, with tattered ears and a scarred hide, souvenirs of fights innumerable, with no beauty and less morals, and named, with appropriate fitness, “Cherub.”

It was a quarter to twelve on a Sunday morning and Jed was preparing his dinner.  The piece de resistance of the dinner was, in this instance, to be a mackerel.  Jed had bought the mackerel of the fish peddler the previous afternoon and it had been reposing on a plate in the little ancient ice-chest which stood by the back door of the Winslow kitchen.  Barbara, just back from Sunday school and arrayed in her best, saw that back door open and decided to call.  Jed, as always, was glad to see her.

“You’re getting dinner, aren’t you, Mr. Winslow?” she observed.

Jed looked at her over his spectacles.  “Yes,” he answered.  “Unless somethin’ happens I’m gettin’ dinner.”

His visitor looked puzzled.

“Why, whatever happened you would be getting dinner just the same, wouldn’t you?” she said.  “You might not have it, but you’d be getting it, you know.”

Jed took the mackerel out of the ice-chest and put the plate containing it on the top of the latter.  “We-ell,” he drawled, “you can’t always tell.  I might take so long gettin’ it that, first thing I knew, ’twould be supper.”

Humming a hymn he took another dish from the ice-chest and placed it beside the mackerel plate.

“What’s that?” inquired Barbara.

“That?  Oh, that’s my toppin’-off layer.  That’s a rice puddin’, poor man’s puddin’, some folks call it.  I cal’late your ma’d call it a man’s poor puddin’, but it makes good enough ballast for a craft like me.”  He began singing again.