Polly's Business Venture

begins just the other side of the city-line of Portchester,” said Mr. Fabian. “But there are no antiques to be found in Rye, Portchester or Greenwich, in these days of amateur collectors hunting over those sections,” remarked Mrs. Fabian. “You are not limited to those nearby towns; but you can travel fifty miles in the inland sections in a short time, and stop at simple little farm-houses to inquire, as we did this summer while touring England. I wager you’ll come home with enough trophies of war to start you off again, in a day or two,” explained Mr. Fabian. On Saturday morning, Mrs. Fabian packed an auto-kit with delectable sandwiches, cakes and other dainties, and the party of amateur collectors started out on their quest. The chauffeur smiled at their eagerness to arrive at some place on the Boston Post Road that might suggest that it led to their Mecca. He kept on, however, until after passing through Stamford, then he turned to the left and followed a road that seemed to leave all suburban life behind, in a very short time. “Where are you taking us, Carl?” asked Polly, curiously. “On a road that Mr. Ashby told me about. He has never stopped at these places, but he thinks you will find something, along here.” After several more miles had been reeled off, the eager and watchful passengers in the car glimpsed a low one-story farm-house, with plenty of acreage around it. The two-story box-like addition built at the rear and hooked up to the tiny dwelling that almost squatted on the road itself, seemed to apologise for the insignificance of its mother-house. “Slow up, Carl. Let’s look this place over,” called Mrs. Fabian. The automobile came to a stop and the ladies leaned out to inspect the possibilities in such an old place. A girl of ten came around the corner of the box-house and stood gazing at the people in the car. Carl seemed to be no novice in this sort of outing, and he called to the girl: “Hey! Is your mudder home?” The girl nodded without saying a word. “All right! Tell her to come out, a minute.” Mrs. Fabian hastily interpolated with: “Oh, we’d better go in and ask for a drink, Carl.” Carl laughed. “Just as you say, Missus. But dese farmer people don’t stand on fussin’. You’se can ask her right…