Kenelm’s reply was strange for him.  He scratched a match and lit his pipe with calm deliberation.

“I’m cal’latin’ to,” he said, cheerfully.  And his sister, to the surprise of Mrs. Barnes and Emily, did not utter another word of protest.

Captain Obed volunteered to accompany them to the hotel and to the store of Mr. Badger.  On the way Thankful mentioned Mr. Parker’s amazing independence in the matter of the pipe.

The captain chuckled.  “Yes,” he said, “Kenelm smokes when he wants to, and sometimes when he don’t, I guess, just to keep his self-respect.  Smokin’ is one p’int where he beat out Hannah.  It’s quite a yarn, the way he done it is.  Some time I’ll tell it to you, maybe.”

The hotel—­it was kept by Darius Holt, father of Winnie S.—­was no more inviting than Miss Parker’s and Captain Bangs’ hints had led them to expect.  But Thankful insisted on engaging a room for the night and on returning there for dinner, supper and breakfast the following day.

“After that, we’ll see,” she said.  “Now let’s go and make a call on that rent collector of mine.”

Mr. Badger was surprised to meet the owner of the Barnes house, surprised and a bit taken aback, so it seemed to Mrs. Barnes and her cousin.  He was very polite, almost obsequiously so, and his explanations concerning the repairs which he had found it necessary to make and the painting which he had had done were lengthy if not convincing.

As they left him, smiling and bowing in the doorway of his store, Thankful shook her head.  When they were out of earshot she said: 

“Hum!  The paint he says he put on that precious property of mine don’t show as much as you’d expect, but he used enough butter and whitewash this morning to make up.  He’s a slick party, that Mr. Badger is, or I miss my guess.  His business arithmetic don’t go much further than addition.  Everything in creation added to one makes one and he’s the one.  Mr. Chris Badger’s got jobs enough, accordin’ to his sign.  He won’t starve if he don’t collect rents for me any more.”

The hotel dinner was neither bountiful nor particularly well cooked.  The Holts joined them at table and Winnie S. talked a good deal.  He expressed much joy at the recovery of his lantern.

“But when I see you folks in that house last night,” he said, “I thought to myself, ‘Judas priest!’ thinks I.  ’Them women has got more spunk than I’ve got.’  Gettin’ into a house like that all alone in the dark—­Whew!  Judas priest!  I wouldn’t do it!”

“Why not?” asked Emily.

“Oh, just ’cause I wouldn’t, I suppose.  Now I don’t believe in such things, of course, but old Laban he did die there.  I never heard nothin’, but they tell me—­”

“Rubbish!” broke in Mr. Holt, Senior. “‘Tain’t nothin’ but fool yarns, the whole of it.  Take an old house, a hundred year old same as that is, and shut her up and ‘tain’t long afore folks do get to pretendin’ they hear things.  I never heard nothin’.  Have some more pie, Miss Howes?  Huh!  There ain’t no more, is there!”