And I turned and ran." Her fingers closed upon the hand of her aunt, but her eyes clung to Good Indian, as though it was to him she was speaking.
"Tramp," suggested Baumberger, in a tone of soothing finality, as when one hushes the fear of a child.

"Sick the dogs on him.

He'll go--never saw the hobo yet that wouldn't run from a dog." He smiled leeringly up at her, and reached for a second helping of honey.
Good Indian pulled his glance from Evadna, and tried to bore through the beefy mask which was Baumberger's face, but all he found there was a gross interest in his breakfast and a certain indulgent sympathy for Evadna's fear, and he frowned in a baffled way.
"Who ever heard of a tramp camped in our orchard!" flouted Phoebe.

"They don't get down here once a year, and then they always come to the house.
You couldn't know there WAS any strawberry patch behind that thick row of trees--or a garden, or anything else." "He's got a row of stakes running clear across the patch," Evadna recalled suddenly.

"Just like they do for a new street, or a railroad, or something.