He was wedged in so tight it was a hard job to get him out,
and the machine ain't never worked right since.'
`Was he clear dead, Tony?' we cried.
`Was he dead? Well, I guess so! There, now, Nina's all upset. We won't
talk about it. Don't you cry, Nina. No old tramp won't get you while
Tony's here.'
Mrs. Harling spoke up sternly. `Stop crying, Nina, or I'll always send you
upstairs when Antonia tells us about the country. Did they never find out
where he came from, Antonia?'
`Never, ma'm. He hadn't been seen nowhere except in a little town they call
Conway. He tried to get beer there, but there wasn't any saloon. Maybe he
came in on a freight, but the brakeman hadn't seen him. They couldn't find
no letters nor nothing on him; nothing but an old penknife in his pocket
and the wishbone of a chicken wrapped up in a piece of paper, and some
poetry.'
`Some poetry?' we exclaimed.
`I remember,' said Frances. `It was "The Old Oaken Bucket," cut out of a
newspaper and nearly worn out. Ole Iverson brought it into the office and
showed it to me.'
`Now, wasn't that strange, Miss Frances?' Tony asked thoughtfully. `What
would anybody want to kill themselves in summer for? In threshing time,
too! It's nice everywhere then.'
`So it is, Antonia,' said Mrs.
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