“W.  J. Mandelberger, of Martins Mills, was among us last Friday,” he read, slowly, distinctly, measuring every word.  “He paid his subscription for the year and informed us that Mrs. Mandelberger had just presented him with a bouncing baby boy.  Congratulations, W. J.”

I coughed apologetically, but Elmer rattled the paper just then, and did not notice me.

He went rumbling on:  “William Arker, of Popolomus, and Miss Myrtle McGee, of Turkey Valley, were united in the holy bonds of matrimony on the sixth ultimo.”

“Elmer,” I said sharply, thumping the floor with a crutch.

Spiker turned slowly.

“Oh,” he exclaimed, “is that you?  Excuse me; I was reading the news.  Everybody ought to keep up with what’s happenin’.  The higher up we gits on the ladder of human intelligence, the more news we have—­we can see furder.”

Having evolved this sage remark, Elmer twisted back to his old position and raised the paper.

“Now mind this,” he said.  “Jonas Parker and his wife and four of his children were——­”

“See here,” I cried, pounding the floor again.  “I don’t care for Jonas Parker and all of his children.  Where is Mr. Weston?”

“Oh,” said Elmer, “excuse me.  I thought you had come to see me.  It’s Weston, eh?  Well, his room’s just there at the head of the stairs.”

He pointed to the door which gave an entrance to the rear hall, but as I wished to be a bit formal in my call on the stranger, I suggested that Mr. Spiker might oblige me by seeing if the gentleman was at home.  This seemed entirely unnecessary to mine host, and he wanted to argue the point.  But I insisted, and he arose with a sigh, and taking the lamp in his hand, disappeared, leaving me in utter darkness.  The door banged shut behind him and I heard him at the foot of the stairs roaring “Ho-ho-there-ho!”

No answer came from the floor above.  Again sounded the stentorian tones.

“Mark says as if you are there, you’re to come down; he wants to see you.”

A last “Ho-there-ho”; a long silence; the door opened.  There was light again and Elmer was before me.

“He ain’t there, I guess,” he said.  “Still, if you want me to make sure, I’ll go up.”

[Illustration:  No answer came from the floor above.]

Inasmuch as mine host’s cries must still be echoing in the uttermost parts of the house, it seemed needless to compel him to take the climb.  Spiker agreed with me.  It was not surprising that Weston was out, for he was an odd one, always spooking around somewhere, investigating everything, and asking questions.  His room was full of books in various languages, and when he wasn’t wandering about the valley, he would be sitting reading far into the night—­sometimes as late as half-past ten.  There was a fellow named Goth, who seemed to be Weston’s favorite writer.  This Goth was a Pennsylvania Dutchman,