From the wisps of fresh hay strewn along the road, Bud knew that haying had begun at Little Lost.

There were at least four cabins and a somewhat pretentious, story-and-a-half log house with vines reaching vainly to the high window sills, and coarse lace curtains.

One of these curtains moved slightly, and Bud's sharp eyes detected the movement and knew that his arrival was observed in spite of the emptiness of the yard.
The beaten path led to a screen door which sagged with much slamming, leaving a wide space at the top through which flies passed in and out quite comfortably.

Bud saw that, also, and his fingers itched to reset that door, just as he would have done for his mother--supposing his mother would have tolerated the slamming which had brought the need.

Bud lifted his gloved knuckles to knock, saw that the room within was grimy and bare and meant for public use, very much like the office of a country hotel, with a counter and a set of pigeon-holes at the farther end.