“You see,” said the lawyer sharply, giving Bub a little shake, “those are the exact words of the letter.  We’re going to enter the Lodge and take possession of it, as Mr. Morrison has told us to do, and if you don’t obey my orders I shall give you a good flogging.  Do you understand that?”

Bub nodded, more cheerfully.

“If ye do it by force,” said he, “that lets me out.  Nobody kin blame me if I’m forced.”

Mary Louise laughed so heartily that the boy cast an upward, half-approving glance at her face.  Even Mr. Conant’s stern visage relaxed.

“See here, Bub,” he said, “obey my orders and no harm can come to you.  This letter is genuine and if you serve us faithfully while we are here I’ll—­I’ll give you four bits a week.”

“Heh?  Four bits!”

“Exactly.  Four bits every week.”

“Gee, that’ll make six bits a week, with the two Talbot’s goin’ ter give me.  I’m hanged ef I don’t buy a sweater fer next winter, afore the cold weather comes!”

“Very good,” said Mr. Conant.  “Now get busy and let us in.”

Bub deliberately closed the knife and put it in his pocket, tossing away the stick.

“Gals,” he remarked, with another half glance at Mary Louise, “ain’t ter my likin’; but four bits—­”

He turned and walked away to where a wild rosebush clambered over one corner of the Lodge.  Pushing away the thick, thorny branches with care, he thrust in his hand and drew out a bunch of keys.

“If it’s jus’ the same t’ you, sir, I’d ruther ye’d snatch ’em from my hand,” he suggested.  “Then, if I’m blamed, I kin prove a alibi.”

Mr. Conant was so irritated that he literally obeyed the boy’s request and snatched the keys.  Then he led the way to the front door.

“It’s that thin, brass one,” Bub hinted.

Mr. Conant opened the front door.  The place was apparently in perfect order.

“Go and get Hannah and Irene, please,” said Peter to Mary Louise, and soon they had all taken possession of the cosy Lodge, had opened the windows and aired it and selected their various bedrooms.

“It is simply delightful!” exclaimed Irene, who was again seated in her wheeled chair, “and, if Uncle Peter will build a little runway from the porch to the ground, as he did at home, I shall be able to go and come as I please.”

Meantime Aunt Hannah—­as even Mary Louise now called Mrs. Conant—­ ransacked the kitchen and cupboards to discover what supplies were in the house.  There was a huge stock of canned goods, which Will Morrison had begged them to use freely, and the Conants had brought a big box of other groceries with them, which was speedily unpacked.

While the others were thus engaged in settling and arranging the house, Irene wheeled her chair to the porch, on the steps of which sat Bub, again whittling.  He had shown much interest in the crippled girl, whose misfortune seemed instantly to dispel his aversion for her sex, at least so far as she was concerned.  He was not reluctant even to look at her face and he watched with astonishment the ease with which she managed her chair.  Having overheard, although at a distance, most of the boy’s former conversation with Uncle Peter, Irene now began questioning him.