much upset. He's familiar with guns. I prefer fishing rods.
"A quaint old party," he mused, as we got under way. "Old house, everything all dust-covered, old woman—and an up-to-date automatic in her fist. How many old farm ladies pack new guns?"
Now I was awake. "Yes, and how many old ladies up in this section of the hinterland speak with an unbucolic accent. I know the local dialect, and she doesn’t belong."
"We'll stop here for gas," said Hunky, guiding the car around another which was filling from a tank by a country store.
A thick-set young man was turning the gasoline pump-handle and another man, athletic in build and in his early thirties, was watching the flow into the tank of his car.
Nobody up in that section of the world ever hurries, and the conversation between the two was easy and unruffled.
"Sure you won't disappoint us?" asked the store-keeper.
"No fear," answered the other. "Cases all taken care of and I can get away with no trouble. Better give me two quarts of oil, Ed, medium."
The one called Ed went inside, and Hunky and I followed him in search of tobacco. He obliged me with a package and also some conversation which he seemed anxious to spill.
"That feller out there is our district attorney," he said. "Wouldn't think it, would you? Young and all that. Fact, he's the youngest district attorney in our state. He plays short field on our baseball team—The Hunterville Tigers."
"So he's district attorney?" inquired Hunky.
"Sure is, and smart as they make 'em."
Hunky wandered out to the cars in front I followed. He approached the young official, who was putting up the hood of his car in readiness for the oil.
"Sir," said Hunky to him. "Are you District Attorney for this county?"
"Yes, sir," answered the man, straightening up and gazing back at Hunky with a pair of very frank and fearless gray eyes.
"In that case I want to tell you something," said Hunky. "I just broke into an old house about three miles down this road. It looked to be a deserted house, all covered with woodbine and a lot of golden glow in the front of it."
"That's the Old Collishaw House. It is deserted. No one has lived there for fifteen years."
"I thought so, too—consequently when I ventured through a door and looked smack into the barrel of an unprepossessing revolver you can realize I was surprised some."
The young District Attorney pushed his hat up from his forehead. There seemed nothing at all that could be hidden from his eyes, and now he bent their gaze on Hunky.
"Hum," he said finally. "If that had happened at night I'd say that you were seeing things."
Hunky laughed.
"My friend had the same pleasure and also assisted me in reaching for the sky. It was an old lady who was on the other end of that gun."
"Old lady?"
"Yes. She searched us mentally and told us to get out. We did. That wasn't more than fifteen minutes ago. Here's the strange thing about it to my mind. Old house, old lady, everything moss-covered and dusty—and a brand new up-to-date automatic in the old dame's hand."
The other man mused over this without comment. Finally he shot a question at us.
"Where are you two going?"
"Fishing in Cold Stream Pond. Come up here every year. My name
