There was but little
furniture, plain, old-fashioned, and good of its kind; a
stuffed squirrel in a case and a wall-calendar of four years
ago were about the only symptoms of decoration. But Stoner
had eyes for little else than the bed, and could scarce wait
to tear his clothes off him before rolling in a luxury of
weariness into its comfortable depths. The hounds of Fate
seemed to have checked for a brief moment.
In the cold light of morning Stoner laughed mirthlessly as
he slowly realized the position in which he found himself.
Perhaps he might snatch a bit of breakfast on the strength
of his likeness to this other missing neer-do-well, and get
safely away before any one discovered the fraud that had
been thrust on him. In the room downstairs he found the
bent old man ready with a dish of bacon and fried eggs for
``Master Tom's'' breakfast, while a hard-faced elderly maid
brought in a teapot and poured him out a cup of tea. As he
sat at the table a small spaniel came up and made friendly
advances.
``'Tis old Bowker's pup,'' explained the old man, whom the
hard-faced maid had addressed as George. ``She was main
fond of you; never seemed the same after you went away to
Australee.
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