On a fine Sunday in summer after the close of the service the exit of the congregation of St. James's church presents an animated and inspiring spectacle. A good many well-dressed ladies of various ages, and not quite so many well-dressed men, mostly (as David would have put it) "runnin' a little younger," come from out the sacred edifice with an expression of relief easily changeable to something gayer. A few drive away in handsome equipages, but most prefer to walk, and there is usually a good deal of smiling talk in groups before parting, in which Mr. Euston likes to join. He leaves matters in the vestry to the care of old Barlow, the sexton, and makes, if one may be permitted the expression, "a quick change."
Things had come about very much as David had desired and anticipated, and our friend had met quite a number of the "summer people," having been waylaid at times by the rector—in whose good graces he stood so high that he might have sung anything short of a comic song during the offertory—and presented willy-nilly. On this particular Sunday he had lingered a while in the gallery after service over some matter connected with the music, and when he came out of the church most of the people had madetheir way down the front steps and up the street; but standing near the gate was a group of three—the rector and two young women whom John had seen the previous summer, and now recognized as the Misses Verjoos. He raised his hat as he was passing the group, when Mr. Euston detained him: "I want to present you to the Misses Verjoos." A tall girl, dressed in some black material which gave John the impression of lace, recognized his salutation with a slight bow and a rather indifferent survey from a pair of very somber dark eyes, while her sister, in light colors, gave him a smiling glance from a pair of very blue ones, and, rather to his surprise, put out her hand with the usual declaration of pleasure, happiness, or what not.
"We were just speaking of the singing," said the rector, "and I was saying that it was all your doing."
"You really have done wonders," condescended she of the somber eyes. "We have only been here a day or two and this is the first time we have been at church."
The party moved out of the gate and up the street, the rector leading with Miss Verjoos, followed by our friend and the younger sister.
"Indeed you have," said the latter, seconding her sister's remark. "I don't believe even yourself can quite realize what the difference is. My! it is very nice for the rest of us, but it must be a perfect killing bore for you."
"I have found it rather trying at times," said John; "but now—you are so kind—it is beginning to appear to me as the most delightful of pursuits."
"Very pretty," remarked Miss Clara. "Do you say a good deal of that sort of thing?"
"I am rather out of practice," replied John. "I haven't had much opportunity for some time."
"I don't think you need feel discouraged," she returned. "A good method is everything, and I have no doubt you might soon be in form again."
"Thanks for your encouragement," said John, smiling. "I was beginning to feel quite low in my mind about it." She laughed a little.
"I heard quite a good deal about you last year from a very good friend of yours," said Miss Clara after a pause.
John looked at her inquiringly.
"Mrs. Bixbee," she said. "Isn't she an old dear?"
"I have reason to think so, with all my heart," said John stoutly.
"She talked a lot about you to me," said Miss Clara.
"Yes?"
"Yes, and if your ears did not burn you have no sense of gratitude. Isn't Mr. Harum funny?"
"I have sometimes suspected it," said John, laughing. "He once told me rather an amusing thing about a young woman's running off with one of his horses."
"Did he tell you that? Really? I wonder what you must have thought of me?"
"Something of what Mr. Harum did, I fancy," said John.
"What was that?"
"Pardon me," was the reply, "but I have been snubbed once this morning." She gave a little laugh.
"Mr. Harum and I are great 'neetups,' as he says. Is 'neetups' a nice word?" she asked, looking at her companion.
"I should think so if I were in Mr. Harum's place," said John. "It means 'cronies,' I believe, in his dictionary."
They had come to where Freeland Street terminates in the Lake Road, which follows the border of the lake to the north and winds around the foot of it to the south and west.
"Why!" exclaimed Miss Clara, "there comes David. I haven't seen him this summer."
They halted and David drew up, winding the reins about the whipstock and pulling off his buckskin glove.
"How do you do, Mr. Harum?" said the girl, putting her hand in his.
"How air ye, Miss Claricy? Glad to see ye agin," he said. "I'm settin' up a little ev'ry day now, an' you don't look as if you was off your feed much, eh?"
"No," she replied, laughing, "I'm in what you call pretty fair condition, I think."
"Wa'al, I reckon," he said, looking at her smiling face with the frankest admiration. "Guess you come out a little finer ev'ry season, don't ye? Hard work to keep ye out o' the 'free-fer-all' class, I guess. How's all the folks?"
"Nicely, thanks," she replied.
"That's right," said David.
"How is Mrs. Bixbee?" she inquired.
"Wa'al," said David with a grin, "I ben a little down in the mouth lately 'bout Polly—seems to be fallin' away some—don't weigh much more 'n I do, I guess;" but Miss Clara only laughed at this gloomy report.
"How is my horse Kirby?" she asked.
"Wa'al, the ole bag-o'-bones is breathin' yet," said David, chuckling, "but he's putty well wore out—has to lean up agin the shed to whicker. Guess I'll have to sell ye another putty soon now. Still, what the' is left of him 's 's good 's ever 't will be, an' I'll send him up in the mornin'." He looked from Miss Clara to John, whose salutation he had acknowledged with the briefest of nods.
"How'd you ketchhim?" he asked, indicating our friend with a motion of his head. "Had to go after him with a four-quart measure, didn't ye? or did he let ye corner him?"
"Mr. Euston caught him for me," she said, laughing, but coloring perceptibly, while John's face grew very red. "I think I will run on and join my sister, and Mr. Lenox can drive home with you. Good bye, Mr. Harum. I shall be glad to have Kirby whenever it is convenient. We shall be glad to see you at Lakelawn," she said to John cordially, "whenever you can come;" and taking her prayer book and hymnal from him, she sped away.
"Look at her git over the ground," said David, turning to watch her while John got into the buggy. "Ain't that a gait?"
"She is a charming girl," said John as old Jinny started off.
"She's the one I told you about that run off with my hoss," remarked David, "an' I alwus look after him fer her in the winter."
"Yes, I know," said John. "She was laughing about it to-day, and saying that you and she were great friends."
"She was, was she?" said David, highlypleased. "Yes, sir, that's the girl, an', scat my ——! if I was thirty years younger she c'd run off with me jest as easy—an' I dunno but what she could anyway," he added.
"Charming girl," repeated John rather thoughtfully.
"Wa'al," said David, "I don't know as much about girls as I do about some things; my experience hain't laid much in that line, but I wouldn't like to take a contract to matchheron anylimit. I guess," he added softly, "that the consideration in that deal 'd have to be 'love an' affection.' Git up, old lady," he exclaimed, and drew the whip along old Jinny's back like a caress. The mare quickened her pace, and in a few minutes they drove into the barn.
"Where you ben?" asked Mrs. Bixbee of her brother as the three sat at the one o'clock dinner. "I see you drivin' off somewheres."
"Ben up the Lake Road to 'Lizer Howe's," replied David. "He's got a hoss 't I've some notion o' buyin'."
"Ain't the' week-days enough," she asked, "to do your horse-tradin' in 'ithout breakin' the Sabbath?"
David threw back his head and lowered a stalk of the last asparagus of the year into his mouth.
"Some o' the best deals I ever made," he said, "was made on a Sunday. Hain't you never heard the sayin', 'The better the day, the better the deal'?"
"Wa'al," declared Mrs. Bixbee, "the' can't be no blessin' on money that's made in that way, an' you'd be better off without it."
"I dunno," remarked her brother, "but Deakin Perkins might ask a blessin' on a hoss trade, but I never heard of it's bein' done, an' I don't know jest how the deakin 'd put it; it'd be two fer the deakin an' one fer the other feller, though, somehow, you c'n bet."
"Humph!" she ejaculated. "I guess nobody ever did; an' I sh'd think you had money enoughan' horses enough an' time enough to keep out o' that bus'nis on Sunday, anyhow."
"Wa'al, wa'al," said David, "mebbe I'll swear off before long, an' anyway the' wa'n't no blessin' needed on this trade, fer if you'll ask 'Lizer he'll tell ye the' wa'n't none made. 'Lizer 's o' your way o' thinkin' on the subjict."
"That's to his credit, anyway," she asserted.
"Jes' so," observed her brother; "I've gen'ally noticed that folks who was of your way o' thinkin' never made no mistakes, an' 'Lizer 's a very consistent believer;" whereupon he laughed in a way to arouse both Mrs. Bixbee's curiosity and suspicion.
"I don't see anythin' in that to laugh at," she declared.
"He, he, he, he!" chuckled David.
"Wa'al, you may 's well tell it one time 's another. That's the way," she said, turning to John with a smile trembling on her lips, "'t he picks at me the hull time."
"I've noticed it," said John. "It's shameful."
"I do it hully fer her good," asserted David with a grin. "If it wa'n't fer me she'd git in time as narrer as them seven-day Babtists over to Peeble—they call 'em the 'narrer Babtists.' You've heard on 'em, hain't you, Polly?"
"No," she said, without looking up from her plate, "I never heard on 'em, an' I don't much believe you ever did neither."
"What!" exclaimed David, "You lived here goin' on seventy year an' never heard on 'em?"
"David Harum!" she cried, "I ain't within ten year——"
"Hold on," he protested, "don't throw that teacup. I didn't say youwas, I only said you wasgoin' on—an' about them people over to Peeble, they've got the name of the 'narrer Babtists' because they're so narrer in their views that fourteen on 'em c'n sit, side an' side, in a buggy." This astonishing statement elicited a laugh even from Aunt Polly, but presently she said:
"Wa'al, I'm glad you found one man that would stan' you off on Sunday."
"Yes'm," said her brother, "'Lizer 's jest your kind. I knew 't he'd hurt his foot, an' prob'ly couldn't go to meetin', an' sure enough, he was settin' on the stoop, an' I drove in an' pulled up in the lane alongside. We said good mornin' an' all that, an' I ast after the folks an' how his foot was gettin' 'long, an' so on, an' fin'ly I says, 'I see your boy drivin' a hoss the other day that looked a little—f'm the middle o' the road—as if he might match one I've got, an' I thought I'd drive up this mornin' an' see if we couldn't git up a dicker.' Wa'al, he give a kind of a hitch in his chair as if his foot hurt him, an' then he says, 'I guess I can't deal with ye to-day. I don't never do no bus'nis on Sunday,' he says.
"'I've heard you was putty pertic'ler,' I says, 'but I'm putty busy jest about now, an' I thought that mebbe once in a way, an' seein' that you couldn't go to meetin' anyway, an' that I've come quite a ways an' don't know when I c'n see you agin, an' so on, that mebbe you'd think, under all the circumstances, the' wouldn't be no great harm in't—long 's I don't pay over no money, at cetery,' I says.
"'No,' he says, shakin' his head in a sort o' mournful way, 'I'm glad to see ye, an' I'm sorry you've took all that trouble fer nuthin', but my conscience won't allow me,' he says, 'to do no bus'nis on Sunday.'
"'Wa'al,' I says, 'I don't ask no man to go agin his conscience, but it wouldn't be no very glarin' transgression on your part, would it, if I was to go up to the barn all alone by myself an' look at the hoss?' I c'd see," continued Mr. Harum, "that his face kind o' brightened up at that, but he took his time to answer. 'Wa'al,' he says fin'ly, 'I don't want to lay down no law feryou, an' ifyoudon't see no harm in't, I guess the' ain't nuthin' to prevent ye.' So I got down an' started fer the barn, an'—he, he, he!—when I'd got about a rod he hollered after me, 'He's in the end stall,' he says.
"Wa'al," the narrator proceeded, "I looked the critter over an' made up my mind about what he was wuth to me, an' went back an' got in, an' drove into the yard, an' turned 'round, an' drew up agin 'longside the stoop. 'Lizer looked up at me in an askin' kind of a way, but he didn't say anythin'.
"'I s'pose,' I says, 'that you wouldn't want me to say anythin' more to ye, an' I may 's well jog along back.'
"'Wa'al,' he says, 'I can't very well help hearin' ye, kin I, if you got anythin' to say?'
"'Wa'al,' I says, 'the hoss ain't exac'ly what I expected to find, nor jest what I'm lookin' fer; but I don't say I wouldn't 'a' made a deal with ye if the price had ben right, an' it hadn't ben Sunday.' I reckon," said David with a wink at John, "that that there foot o' his'n must 'a'give him an extry twinge the way he wriggled in his chair; but I couldn't break his lockjaw yit. So I gathered up the lines an' took out the whip, an' made all the motions to go, an' then I kind o' stopped an' says, 'I don't want you to go agin your princ'ples nor the law an' gosp'l on my account, but the' can't be no harm in s'posin' a case, can the'?' No, he allowed that s'posin' wa'n't jest the same as doin'. 'Wa'al,' says I, 'now s'posin' I'd come up here yestidy as I have to-day, an' looked your hoss over, an' said to you, "What price do you put on him?" what do you s'pose you'd 'a' said?'
"'Wa'al,' he said, 'puttin' it that way, I s'pose I'd 'a' said one-seventy.'
"'Yes,' I says, 'an' then agin, if I'd said that he wa'n't wuth that money to me, not bein' jest what I wanted—an' so he ain't—but that I'd give one-forty,cash, what do you s'pose you'd 'a' said?'
"'Wa'al,' he says, givin' a hitch, 'of course I don't know jest what I would have said, but Iguess,' he says, ''t I'd 'a' said if you'll make it one-fifty you c'n have the hoss.'
"'Wa'al, now,' I says, 's'posin' I was to send Dick Larrabee up here in the mornin' with the money, what do you s'pose you'd do?'
"'Is'poseI'd let him go,' says 'Lizer.
"'All right,' I says, an' off I put. That conscience o' 'Lizer's," remarked Mr. Harum in conclusion, "is wuth its weight in gold,jest about."
"David Harum," declared Aunt Polly, "you'd ort to be 'shamed o' yourself."
"Wa'al," said David with an air of meekness,"if I've done anythin' I'm sorry for, I'm willin' to be forgi'n. Now, s'posin'——"
"I've heard enough 'bout s'posin' fer one day," said Mrs. Bixbee decisively, "unless it's s'posin' you finish your dinner so's't Sairy c'n git through her work sometime."
After dinner John went to his room and David and his sister seated themselves on the "verandy." Mr. Harum lighted a cigar and enjoyed his tobacco for a time in silence, while Mrs. Bixbee perused, with rather perfunctory diligence, the columns of her weekly church paper.
"I seen a sight fer sore eyes this mornin'," quoth David presently.
"What was that?" asked Aunt Polly, looking up over her glasses.
"Claricy Verjoos fer one part on't," said David.
"The Verjooses hev come, hev they? Wa'al, that's good. I hope she'll come up an' see me."
David nodded. "An' the other part on't was," he said, "she an' that young feller of our'n was walkin' together, an' a putty slick pair they made too."
"Ain't she purty?" said Mrs. Bixbee.
"They don't make 'em no puttier," affirmed David; "an' they was a nice pair. I couldn't help thinkin'," he remarked, "what a nice hitch up they'd make."
"Guess the' ain't much chance o' that," she observed.
"No, I guess not either," said David.
"He hain't got anythin' to speak of, I s'pose,an' though I reckon she'll hev prop'ty some day, all that set o' folks seems to marry money, an' some one's alwus dyin' an' leavin' some on 'em some more. The' ain't nothin' truer in the Bible," declared Mrs. Bixbee with conviction, "'n that sayin' thet them that has gits."
"That's seemin'ly about the way it runs in gen'ral," said David.
"It don't seem right," said Mrs. Bixbee, with her eyes on her brother's face. "Now there was all that money one o' Mis' Elbert Swayne's relations left her last year, an' Lucy Scramm, that's poorer 'n poverty's back kitchin, an' the same relation to him that Mis' Swayne was, only got a thousan' dollars, an' the Swaynes rich already. Not but what the thousan' was a godsend to the Scramms, but he might jest as well 'a' left 'em comf'tibly off as not, 'stid of pilin' more onto the Swaynes that didn't need it."
"Does seem kind o' tough," David observed, leaning forward to drop his cigar ash clear of the veranda floor, "but that's the way things goes, an' I've often had to notice that a man'll sometimes do the foolishist thing or the meanest thing in his hull life after he's dead."
"You never told me," said Mrs. Bixbee, after a minute or two, in which she appeared to be following up a train of reflection, "much of anythin' about John's matters. Hain't he ever told you anythin' more 'n what you've told me? or don't ye want me to know? Didn't his father leave anythin'?"
"The' was a little money," replied her brother, blowing out a cloud of smoke, "an' a lot of unlikely chances, but nothin' to live on."
"An' the' wa'n't nothin' for 't but he had to come up here?" she queried.
"He'd 'a' had to work on a salary somewhere, I reckon," was the reply. "The' was one thing," added David thoughtfully after a moment, "that'll mebbe come to somethin' some time, but it may be a good while fust, an' don't you ever let on to him nor nobody else 't I ever said anythin' about it."
"I won't open my head to a livin' soul," she declared. "What was it?"
"Wa'al, I don't know 's I ever told ye," he said, "but a good many years ago I took some little hand in the oil bus'nis, but though I didn't git in as deep as I wish now 't I had, I've alwus kept up a kind of int'rist in what goes on in that line."
"No, I guess you never told me," she said. "Where you goin'?" as he got out of his chair.
"Goin' to git my cap," he answered. "Dum the dum things! I don't believe the's a fly in Freeland County that hain't danced the wild kachuky on my head sence we set here. Be I much specked?" he asked, as he bent his bald poll for her inspection.
"Oh, go 'long!" she cried, as she gave him a laughing push.
"'Mongst other-things," he resumed, when he had returned to his chair and relighted his cigar, "the' was a piece of about ten or twelve hunderd acres of land down in Pennsylvany havin' some coal on it, he told me he understood, but all the timber, ten inch an' over, 'd ben sold off. He told me that his father's head clerk told him that the old gentleman had tried fer a long time to dispose of it; but it called fer too much to develop it, I guess; 't any rate he couldn't, an' John's got it to pay taxes on."
"I shouldn't think it was wuth anythin' to him but jest a bill of expense," observed Mrs. Bixbee.
"Tain't now," said David, "an' mebbe won't be fer a good while; still, it's wuth somethin', an' I advised him to hold onto it on gen'ral princ'ples. I don't know the pertic'ler prop'ty, of course," he continued, "but I do know somethin' of that section of country, fer I done a little prospectin' 'round there myself once on a time. But it wa'n't in the oil territory them days, or wa'n't known to be, anyway."
"But it's eatin' itself up with taxes, ain't it?" objected Mrs. Bixbee.
"Wa'al," he replied, "it's free an' clear, an' the taxes ain't so very much—though they do stick it to an outside owner down there—an' the p'int is here: I've alwus thought they didn't drill deep enough in that section. The' was some little traces of oil the time I told ye of, an' I've heard lately that the's some talk of a move to test the territory agin, an', if anythin' was to be found, the young feller's prop'ty might be wuth somethin', but," he added, "of course the' ain't no tellin'."
"Well," said Miss Verjoos, when her sister overtook her, Mr. Euston having stopped at his own gate, "you and your latest discovery seemed to be getting on pretty well from the occasional sounds which came to my ears. What is he like?"
"He's charming," declared Miss Clara.
"Indeed," remarked her sister, lifting her eyebrows. "You seem to have come to a pretty broad conclusion in a very short period of time. 'Charming' doesn't leave very much to be added on longer acquaintance, does it?"
"Oh, yes it does," said Miss Clara, laughing. "There are all degrees: Charming, very charming, most charming, andperfectlycharming."
"To be sure," replied the other. "And there is the descending scale: Perfectly charming, most charming, very charming, charming, very pleasant, quite nice, and, oh, yes, well enough. Of course you have asked him to call."
"Yes, I have," said Miss Clara.
"Don't you think that mamma——"
"No, I don't," declared the girl with decision. "I know from what Mr. Euston said, and I know from the little talk I had with him this morning, from his manner and—je ne sais quoi—that he will be a welcome addition to a set ofpeople in which every single one knows just what every other one will say on any given subject and on any occasion. You know how it is."
"Well," said the elder sister, smiling and half shutting her eyes with a musing look, "I think myself that we all know each other a little too well to make our affairs very exciting. Let us hope the new man will be all you anticipate, and," she added with a little laugh, and a side glance at her sister, "that there will be enough of him to go 'round."
It hardly needs to be said that the aristocracy of Homeville and all the summer visitors and residents devoted their time to getting as much pleasure and amusement out of their life as was to be afforded by the opportunities at hand: Boating, tennis, riding, driving; an occasional picnic, by invitation, at one or the other of two very pretty waterfalls, far enough away to make the drive there and back a feature; as much dancing in an informal way as could be managed by the younger people; and a certain amount of flirtation, of course (but of a very harmless sort), to supply zest to all the rest. But it is not intended to give a minute account of the life, nor to describe in detail all the pursuits and festivities which prevailed during the season. Enough to say that our friend soon had opportunity to partake in them as much and often as was compatible with his duties. His first call at Lakelawn happened to be on an evening when the ladies were not at home, and it is quite certain that upon this, the occasion of his first essay of the sort, he experienced a strong feeling of relief to be able to leave cards instead of meeting anumber of strange people, as he had thought would be likely.
One morning, some days later, Peleg Hopkins came in with a grin and said, "The's some folks eout in front wants you to come eout an' see 'em."
"Who are they?" asked John, who for the moment was in the back room and had not seen the carriage drive up.
"The two Verjoos gals," said Peleg with another distortion of his freckled countenance. "One on 'em hailed me as I was comin' in and ast me to ast you to come eout." John laughed a little as he wondered what their feeling would be were they aware that they were denominated as the "Verjoos gals" by people of Peleg's standing in the community.
"We were so sorry to miss your visit the other evening," said Miss Clara, after the usual salutations.
John said something about the loss having been his own, and after a few remarks of no special moment the young woman proceeded to set forth her errand.
"Do you know the Bensons from Syrchester?" she asked.
John replied that he knew who they were but had not the pleasure of their acquaintance.
"Well," said Miss Clara, "they are extremely nice people, and Mrs. Benson is very musical; in fact, Mr. Benson does something in that line himself. They have with them for a few days a violinist, Fairman I think his name is, from Boston, and a pianist—what was it, Juliet?"
"Schlitz, I think," said Miss Verjoos.
"Oh, yes, that is it, and they are coming tothe house to-night, and we are going to have some music in an informal sort of way. We shall be glad to have you come if you can."
"I shall be delighted," said John sincerely. "At what time?"
"Any time you like," she said; "but the Bensons will probably get there about half-past eight or nine o'clock."
"Thank you very much, and I shall be delighted," he repeated.
Miss Clara looked at him for a moment with a hesitating air.
"There is another thing," she said.
"Yes?"
"Yes," she replied, "I may as well tell you that you will surely be asked to sing. Quite a good many people who have heard you in the quartette in church are anxious to hear you sing alone, Mrs. Benson among them."
John's face fell a little.
"You do sing other than church music, do you not?" she asked.
"Yes," he admitted, "I know some other music."
"Do you think it would be a bore to you."
"No," said John, who indeed saw no way out of it; "I will bring some music, with pleasure, if you wish."
"That's very nice of you," said Miss Clara, "and you will give us all a great deal of pleasure."
He looked at her with a smile.
"That will depend," he said, and after a moment, "Who will play for me?"
"I had not thought of that," was the reply."I think I rather took it for granted that you could play for yourself. Can't you?"
"After a fashion, and simple things," he said, "but on an occasion I would rather not attempt it."
The girl looked at her sister in some perplexity.
"I should think," suggested Miss Verjoos, speaking for the second time, "that Mr. or Herr Schlitz would play your accompaniments, particularly if Mrs. Benson were to ask him, and if he can play for the violin I should fancy he can for the voice."
"Very well," said John, "we will let it go at that." As he spoke David came round the corner of the bank and up to the carriage.
"How d'y' do, Miss Verjoos? How air ye, Miss Claricy?" he asked, taking off his straw hat and mopping his face and head with his handkerchief. "Guess we're goin' to lose our sleighin', ain't we?"
"It seems to be going pretty fast," replied Miss Clara, laughing.
"Yes'm," he remarked, "we sh'll be scrapin' bare ground putty soon now if this weather holds on. How's the old hoss now you got him agin?" he asked. "Seem to 've wintered putty well? Putty chipper, is he?"
"Better than ever," she affirmed. "He seems to grow younger every year."
"Come, now," said David, "that ain't a-goin' to do. I cal'lated to sell ye another hossthissummer anyway. Ben dependin' on't in fact, to pay a dividend. The bankin' bus'nis has been so neglected since this feller come that it don't amount to much any more," and he laid his handon John's shoulder, who colored a little as he caught a look of demure amusement in the somber eyes of the elder sister.
"After that," he said, "I think I had better get back to my neglected duties," and he bowed his adieus.
"No, sir," said Miss Clara to David, "you must get your dividend out of some one else this summer."
"Wa'al," said he, "I see I made a mistake takin' such good care on him. Guess I'll have to turn him over to Dug Robinson to winter next year. Ben havin' a little visit with John?" he asked. Miss Clara colored a little, with something of the same look which John had seen in her sister's face.
"We are going to have some music at the house to-night, and Mr. Lenox has kindly promised to sing for us," she replied.
"He has, has he?" said David, full of interest. "Wa'al, he's the feller c'n do it if anybody can. We have singin' an' music up t' the house ev'ry Sunday night—me an' Polly an' him—an' it's fine. Yes, ma'am, I don't know much about music myself, but I c'n beat time, an' he's got a stack o' music more'n a mile high, an' one o' the songs he sings 'll jest make the windows rattle. That's my fav'rit," averred Mr. Harum.
"Do you remember the name of it?" asked Miss Clara.
"No," he said; "John told me, an' I guess I'd know it if I heard it; but it's about a feller sittin' one day by the org'n an' not feelin' exac'ly right—kind o' tired an' out o' sorts an' not knowin' jest where he was drivin' at—jest joggin' 'long with a loose rein fer quite a piece, an' so on; an'then, by an' by, strikin' right into his gait an' goin' on stronger 'n stronger, an' fin'ly finishin' up with an A—men that carries him quarter way round the track 'fore he c'n pull up. That's my fav'rit," Mr. Harum repeated, "'cept when him an' Polly sings together, an' if that ain't a show—pertic'lerly Polly—I don't want a cent. No, ma'am, when him an' Polly gits good an' goin' you can't see 'em fer dust."
"I should like to hear them," said Miss Clara, laughing, "and I should particularly like to hear your favorite, the one which ends with the Amen—the verylargeA—men."
"Seventeen hands," declared Mr. Harum. "Must you be goin'? Wa'al, glad to have seen ye. Polly's hopin' you'll come an' see her putty soon."
"I will," she promised. "Give her my love, and tell her so, please."
They drove away and David sauntered in, went behind the desks, and perched himself up on a stool near the teller's counter as he often did when in the office, and John was not particularly engaged.
"Got you roped in, have they?" he said, using his hat as a fan. "Scat my ----! but ain't this a ring-tail squealer?"
"It is very hot," responded John.
"Miss Claricy says you're goin' to sing fer 'em up to their house to-night."
"Yes," said John, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, as he pinned a paper strap around a pile of bills and began to count out another.
"Don't feel very fierce for it, I guess, do ye?" said David, looking shrewdly at him.
"Not very," said John, with a short laugh.
"Feel a little skittish 'bout it, eh?" suggested Mr. Harum. "Don't see why ye should—anybody that c'n put up a tune the way you kin."
"It's rather different," observed the younger man, "singing for you and Mrs. Bixbee and standing up before a lot of strange people."
"H-m, h-m," said David with a nod; "diff'rence 'tween joggin' along on the road an' drivin' a fust heat on the track; in one case the' ain't nothin' up, an' ye don't care whether you git there a little more previously or a little less; an' in the other the's the crowd, an' the judges, an' the stake, an' your record, an' mebbe the pool box into the barg'in, that's all got to be considered. Feller don't mind it so much after he gits fairly off, but thinkin' on't beforehand 's fidgity bus'nis."
"You have illustrated it exactly," said John, laughing, and much amused at David's very characteristic, as well as accurate, illustration.
"My!" exclaimed Aunt Polly, when John came into the sitting room after dinner dressed to go out. "My, don't he look nice? I never see you in them clo'es. Come here a minute," and she picked a thread off his sleeve and took the opportunity to turn him round for the purpose of giving him a thorough inspection.
"That wa'n't what you said when you see me inmygold-plated harniss," remarked David, with a grin. "You didn't say nothin' putty to me."
"Humph! I guess the's some diff'rence," observed Mrs. Bixbee with scorn, and her brother laughed.
"How was you cal'latin' to git there?" he asked, looking at our friend's evening shoes.
"I thought at first I would walk," was the reply, "but I rather think I will stop at Robinson's and get him to send me over."
"I guess you won't do nothin' o' the sort," declared David. "Tom's all hitched to take you over, an' when you're ready jest ring the bell."
"You're awfully kind," said John gratefully, "but I don't know when I shall be coming home."
"Come back when you git a good ready," said Mr. Harum. "If you keep him an' the hoss waitin' a spell, I guess they won't take cold this weather."
The Verjoos house, of old red brick, stands about a hundred feet back from the north side of the Lake Road, on the south shore of the lake. Since its original construction aporte cochèrehas been built upon the front. A very broad hall, from which rises the stairway with a double turn and landing, divides the main body of the house through the middle. On the left, as one enters, is the great drawing room; on the right a parlor opening into a library; and beyond, the dining room, which looks out over the lake. The hall opens in the rear upon a broad, covered veranda, facing the lake, with a flight of steps to a lawn which slopes down to the lake shore, a distance of some hundred and fifty yards.
John had to pass through a little flock of young people who stood near and about the entrance to the drawing room, and having given his package of music to the maid in waiting, with a request that it be put upon the piano, he mounted the stairs to deposit his hat and coat, and then went down.
In the south end of the drawing room were some twenty people sitting and standing about, most of them the elders of the families who constituted society in Homeville, many of whom John had met, and nearly all of whom he knewby sight and name. On the edge of the group, and halfway down the room, were Mrs. Verjoos and her younger daughter, who gave him a cordial greeting; and the elder lady was kind enough to repeat her daughter's morning assurances of regret that they were out on the occasion of his call.
"I trust you have been as good as your word," said Miss Clara, "and brought some music."
"Yes, it is on the piano," he replied, looking across the room to where the instrument stood.
The girl laughed. "I wish," she said, "you could have heard what Mr. Harum said this morning about your singing, particularly his description of The Lost Chord, and I wish that I could repeat it just as he gave it."
"It's about a feller sittin' one day by the org'n," came a voice from behind John's shoulder, so like David's as fairly to startle him, "an' not feelin' exac'ly right—kind o' tired an' out o' sorts, an' not knowin' jest where he was drivin' at—jest joggin' along with a loose rein fer quite a piece, an' so on; an' then, by an' by, strikin' right into his gait an' goin' on stronger an' stronger, an' fin'ly finishin' up with an A—men that carries him quarter way 'round the track 'fore he c'n pull up." They all laughed except Miss Verjoos, whose gravity was unbroken, save that behind the dusky windows of her eyes, as she looked at John, there was for an instant a gleam of mischievous drollery.
"Good evening, Mr. Lenox," she said. "I am very glad to see you," and hardly waiting for his response, she turned and walked away.
"That is Juliet all over," said her sister."You would not think to see her ordinarily that she was given to that sort of thing, but once in a while, when she feels like it—well—pranks! She is the funniest creature that ever lived, I believe, and can mimic and imitate any mortal creature. She sat in the carriage this morning, and one might have fancied from her expression that she hardly heard a word, but I haven't a doubt that she could repeat every syllable that was uttered. Oh, here come the Bensons and their musicians."
John stepped back a pace or two toward the end of the room, but was presently recalled and presented to the newcomers. After a little talk the Bensons settled themselves in the corner at the lower end of the room, where seats were placed for the two musicians, and our friend took a seat near where he had been standing. The violinist adjusted his folding music rest. Miss Clara stepped over to the entrance door and put up her finger at the young people in the hall. "After the music begins," she said, with a shake of the head, "if I hear one sound of giggling or chattering, I will send every one of you young heathen home. Remember now! This isn't your party at all."
"But, Clara, dear," said Sue Tenaker (aged fifteen), "if we are very good and quiet do you think they would play for us to dance a little by and by?"
"Impudence!" exclaimed Miss Clara, giving the girl's cheek a playful slap and going back to her place. Miss Verjoos came in and took a chair by her sister. Mrs. Benson leaned forward and raised her eyebrows at Miss Clara, who took a quick survey of the room and nodded in return.Herr Schlitz seated himself on the piano chair, pushed it a little back, drew it a little forward to the original place, looked under the piano at the pedals, took out his handkerchief and wiped his face and hands, and after arpeggioing up and down the key-board, swung into a waltz of Chopin's (Opus 34, Number 1), a favorite of our friend's, and which he would have thoroughly enjoyed—for it was splendidly played—if he had not been uneasily apprehensive that he might be asked to sing after it. And while on some accounts he would have been glad of the opportunity to "have it over," he felt a cowardly sense of relief when the violinist came forward for the next number. There had been enthusiastic applause at the north end of the room, and more or less clapping of hands at the south end, but not enough to impel the pianist to supplement his performance at the time. The violin number was so well received that Mr. Fairman added a little minuet of Boccherini's without accompaniment, and then John felt that his time had surely come. But he had to sit, drawing long breaths, through a Liszt fantasie on themes from Faust before his suspense was ended by Miss Clara, who was apparently mistress of ceremonies and who said to him, "Will you sing now, Mr. Lenox?"
He rose and went to the end of the room where the pianist was sitting. "I have been asked to sing," he said to that gentleman. "Can I induce you to be so kind as to play for me?"
"I am sure he will," said Mrs. Benson, looking at Herr Schlitz.
"Oh, yes, I blay for you if you vant," he said. "Vhere is your moosic?" They went overto the piano. "Oh, ho! Jensen, Lassen, Helmund, Grieg—you zing dem?"
"Some of them," said John. The pianist opened the Jensen album.
"You want to zing one of dese?" he asked.
"As well as anything," replied John, who had changed his mind a dozen times in the last ten minutes and was ready to accept any suggestion.
"Ver' goot," said the other. "Ve dry dis: Lehn deine wang' an meine Wang'." His face brightened as John began to sing the German words. In a measure or two the singer and player were in perfect accord, and as the former found his voice the ends of his fingers grew warm again. At the end of the song the applause was distributed about as after the Chopin waltz.
"Sehr schön!" exclaimed Herr Schlitz, looking up and nodding; "you must zing zome more," and he played the first bars of Marie, am Fenster sitzest du, humming the words under his breath, and quite oblivious of any one but himself and the singer.
"Zierlich," he said when the song was done, reaching for the collection of Lassen. "Mit deinen blauen Augen," he hummed, keeping time with his hands, but at this point Miss Clara came across the room, followed by her sister.
"Mrs. Tenaker," she said, laughing, "asked me to ask you, Mr. Lenox, if you wouldn't please sing something they could understand."
"I have a song I should like to hear you sing," said Miss Verjoos. "There is an obligato for violin and we have a violinist here. It is a beautiful song—Tosti's Beauty's Eyes. Do you know it?"
"Yes," he replied.
"Will you sing it for me?" she asked.
"With the greatest pleasure," he answered.
Once, as he sang the lines of the song, he looked up. Miss Verjoos was sitting with her elbows on the arm of her chair, her cheek resting upon her clasped hands and her dusky eyes were fastened upon his face. As the song concluded she rose and walked away. Mrs. Tenaker came over to the piano and put out her hand.
"Thank you so much for your singing, Mr. Lenox," she said. "Would you like to do an old woman a favor?"
"Very much so," said John, smiling and looking first at Mrs. Tenaker and then about the room, "but there are no old women here as far as I can see."
"Very pretty, sir, very pretty," she said, looking very graciously at him. "Will you sing Annie Laurie for me?"
"With all my heart," he said, bowing. He looked at Herr Schlitz, who shook his head.
"Let me play it for you," said Mrs. Benson, coming over to the piano.
"Where do you want it?" she asked, modulating softly from one key to another.
"I think D flat will be about right," he replied. "Kindly play a little bit of it."
The sound of the symphony brought most of even the young people into the drawing room. At the end of the first verse there was a subdued rustle of applause, a little more after the second, and at the end of the song so much of a burst of approval as could be produced by the audience.Mrs. Benson looked up into John's face and smiled.
"We appear to have scored the success of the evening," she said with a touch of sarcasm. Miss Clara joined them.
"What a dear old song that is!" she said. "Did you see Aunt Charlie (Mrs. Tenaker) wiping her eyes?—and that lovely thing of Tosti's! We are ever so much obliged to you, Mr. Lenox."
John bowed his acknowledgments.
"Will you take Mrs. Benson out to supper? There is a special table for you musical people at the east end of the veranda."
"Is this merely a segregation or a distinction?" said John as they sat down.
"We shall have to wait developments to decide that point, I should say," replied Mrs. Benson. "I suppose that fifth place was put on the off chance that Mr. Benson might be of our party, but," she said, with a short laugh, "he is probably nine fathoms deep in a flirtation with Sue Tenaker. He shares Artemas Ward's tastes, who said, you may remember, that he liked little girls—big ones too."
A maid appeared with a tray of eatables, and presently another with a tray on which were glasses and a bottle of Pommerysec. "Miss Clara's compliments," she said.
"What do you think now?" asked Mrs. Benson, laughing.
"Distinctly a distinction, I should say," he replied.
"Das ist nicht so schlecht," grunted Herr Schlitz as he put half apâtéinto his mouth, "bot I vould brefer beer."
"The music has been a great treat to me," remarked John. "I have heard nothing of the sort for two years."
"You have quite contributed your share of the entertainment," said Mrs. Benson.
"You and I together," he responded, smiling.
"You have got a be-oodifool woice," said Herr Schlitz, speaking with a mouthful of salad, "und you zing ligh a moosician, und you bronounce your vorts very goot."
"Thank you," said John.
After supper there was more singing in the drawing room, but it was not of a very classical order. Something short and taking for violin and piano was followed by an announcement from Herr Schlitz.
"I zing you a zong," he said. The worthy man "breferred beer," but had, perhaps, found the wine quicker in effect, and in a tremendous bass voice he roared out, Im tiefen Keller sitz' ich hier, auf einem Fass voll Reben, which, if not wholly understood by the audience, had some of its purport conveyed by the threefold repetition of "trinke" at the end of each verse. Then a deputation waited upon John, to ask in behalf of the girls and boys if he knew and could sing Solomon Levi.
"Yes," he said, sitting down at the piano, "if you'll all sing with me," and it came to pass that that classic, followed by Bring Back my Bonnie to Me, Paddy Duffy's Cart, There's Music in the Air, and sundry other ditties dear to all hearts, was given by "the full strength of the company" with such enthusiasm that even Mr. Fairman was moved to join in with his violin; and when the Soldier's Farewell was given, Herr Schlitz wouldhave sung the windows out of their frames had they not been open. Altogether, the evening's programme was brought to an end with a grand climax.
"Thank you very much," said John as he said good night to Mrs. Verjoos. "I don't know when I have enjoyed an evening so much."
"Thankyouvery much," she returned graciously. "You have given us all a great deal of pleasure."
"Yes," said Miss Verjoos, giving her hand with a mischievous gleam in her half-shut eyes, "I was enchanted with Solomon Levi."
David and John had been driving for some time in silence. The elder man was apparently musing upon something which had been suggested to his mind. The horses slackened their gait to a walk as they began the ascent of a long hill. Presently the silence was broken by a sound which caused John to turn his head with a look of surprised amusement—Mr. Harum was singing. The tune, if it could be so called, was scaleless, and these were the words:
"Mondaymornin' Imarried me awife,Thinkin' toleadamorecontentedlife;Fiddlin' an'dancin'the' wasplayed,Toseehow unhappypoorIwasmade."Tuesdaymornin','boutbreak o'day,Whilemyheadon thepiller didlay,Shetunedup herclack, an'scoldedmoreThanIeverheard before."
"Never heard me sing before, did ye?" he said, looking with a grin at his companion, who laughed and said that he had never had that pleasure. "Wa'al, that's all 't I remember on't," said David, "an' I dunno 's I've thought about it in thirty year. The' was a number o' verses which carried 'em through the rest o' the week, an' ended up in a case of 'sault an' battery, I rec'lect,but I don't remember jest how. Somethin' we ben sayin' put the thing into my head, I guess."
"I should like to hear the rest of it," said John, smiling.
David made no reply to this, and seemed to be turning something over in his mind. At last he said:
"Mebbe Polly's told ye that I'm a wid'wer."
John admitted that Mrs. Bixbee had said as much as that.
"Yes, sir," said David, "I'm a wid'wer of long standin'."
No appropriate comment suggesting itself to his listener, none was made.
"I hain't never cared to say much about it to Polly," he remarked, "though fer that matter Jim Bixbee, f'm all accounts, was about as poor a shack as ever was turned out, I guess, an'—"
John took advantage of the slight hesitation to interpose against what he apprehended might be a lengthy digression on the subject of the deceased Bixbee by saying:
"You were quite a young fellow when you were married, I infer."
"Two or three years younger 'n you be, I guess," said David, looking at him, "an' a putty green colt too in some ways," he added, handing over the reins and whip while he got out his silver tobacco box and helped himself to a liberal portion of its contents. It was plain that he was in the mood for personal reminiscences.
"As I look back on't now," he began, "it kind o' seems as if it must 'a' ben some other feller, an' yet I remember it all putty dum'd well too—all but one thing, an' that the biggist part on't, an' that is how I ever come to git marriedat all. She was a widdo' at the time, an' kep' the boardin' house where I was livin'. It was up to Syrchester. I was better lookin' them days 'n I be now—had more hair at any rate—though," he remarked with a grin, "I was alwus a better goer than I was a looker. I was doin' fairly well," he continued, "but mebbe not so well as was thought by some.
"Wa'al, she was a good-lookin' woman, some older 'n I was. She seemed to take some shine to me. I'd roughed it putty much alwus, an' she was putty clever to me. She was a good talker, liked a joke an' a laugh, an' had some education, an' it come about that I got to beauin' her 'round quite a consid'able, and used to go an' set in her room or the parlor with her sometimes evenin's an' all that, an' I wouldn't deny that I liked it putty well."
It was some minutes before Mr. Harum resumed his narrative. The reins were sagging over the dashboard, held loosely between the first two fingers and thumb of his left hand, while with his right he had been making abstracted cuts at the thistles and other eligible marks along the roadside.
"Wa'al," he said at last, "we was married, an' our wheels tracked putty well fer quite a consid'able spell. I got to thinkin' more of her all the time, an' she me, seemin'ly. We took a few days off together two three times that summer, to Niag'ry, an' Saratogy, an' 'round, an' had real good times. I got to thinkin' that the state of matrimony was a putty good institution. When it come along fall, I was doin' well enough so 't she could give up bus'nis, an' I hired a house an' we set up housekeepin'. It was really more onmy account than her'n, fer I got to kind o' feelin' that when the meat was tough or the pie wa'n't done on the bottom that I was 'sociated with it, an' gen'ally I wanted a place of my own. But," he added, "I guess it was a mistake, fur 's she was concerned."
"Why?" said John, feeling that some show of interest was incumbent.
"I reckon," said David, "'t she kind o' missed the comp'ny an' the talk at table, an' the goin's on gen'ally, an' mebbe the work of runnin' the place—she was a great worker—an' it got to be some diff'rent, I s'pose, after a spell, settin' down to three meals a day with jest only me 'stid of a tableful, to say nothin' of the evenin's. I was glad enough to have a place of my own, but at the same time I hadn't ben used to settin' 'round with nothin' pertic'ler to do or say, with somebody else that hadn't neither, an' I wa'n't then nor ain't now, fer that matter, any great hand fer readin'. Then, too, we'd moved into a diff'rent part o' the town where my wife wa'n't acquainted. Wa'al, anyway, fust things begun to drag some—she begun to have spells of not speakin', an' then she begun to git notions about me. Once in a while I'd have to go down town on some bus'nis in the evenin'. She didn't seem to mind it at fust, but bom-by she got it into her head that the' wa'n't so much bus'nis goin' on as I made out, an' though along that time she'd set sometimes mebbe the hull evenin' without sayin' anythin' more 'n yes or no, an' putty often not that, yet if I went out there'd be a flare-up; an' as things went on the'd be spells fer a fortni't together when I couldn't any time of day git a word out of her hardly, unless it was to go ferme 'bout somethin' that mebbe I'd done an' mebbe I hadn't—it didn't make no diff'rence. An' when them spells was on, what she didn't take out o' me she did out o' the house—diggin' an' scrubbin', takin' up carpits, layin' down carpits, shiftin' the furniture, eatin' one day in the kitchin an' another in the settin' room, an' sleepin' most anywhere. She wa'n't real well after a while, an' the wuss she seemed to feel, the fiercer she was fer scrubbin' an' diggin' an' upsettin' things in gen'ral, an' bom-by she got so she couldn't keep a hired girl in the house more 'n a day or two at a time. She either wouldn't have 'em, or they wouldn't stay, an' more 'n half the time we was without one. This can't int'rist you much, can it?" said Mr. Harum, turning to his companion.
"On the contrary," replied John, "it interests me very much. I was thinking," he added, "that probably the state of your wife's health had a good deal to do with her actions and views of things, but it must have been pretty hard on you all the same."
"Wa'al, yes," said David, "I guess that's so. Her health wa'n't jest right, an' she showed it in her looks. I noticed that she'd pined an' pindled some, but I thought the' was some natural criss-crossedniss mixed up into it too. But I tried to make allow'nces an' the best o' things, an' git along 's well 's I could; but things kind o' got wuss an' wuss. I told ye that she begun to have notions about me, an' 't ain't hardly nec'sary to say what shape they took, an' after a while, mebbe a year 'n a half, she got so 't she wa'n't satisfied to know where I wasnights—she wanted to know where I wasdaytimes. Kind o'makes me laugh now," he observed, "it seems so redic'lous; but it wa'n't no laughin' matter then. If I looked out o' winder she'd hint it up to me that I was watchin' some woman. She grudged me even to look at a picture paper; an' one day when we happened to be walkin' together she showed feelin' about one o' them wooden Injun women outside a cigar store."
"Oh, come now, Mr. Harum," said John, laughing.
"Wa'al," said David with a short laugh, "mebbe I did stretch that a little; but 's I told ye, she wanted to know where I was daytimes well 's nights, an' ev'ry once 'n a while she'd turn up at my bus'nis place, an' if I wa'n't there she'd set an' wait fer me, an' I'd either have to go home with her or have it out in the office. I don't mean to say that all the sort of thing I'm tellin' ye of kep' up all the time. It kind o' run in streaks; but the streaks kep' comin' oftener an' oftener, an' you couldn't never tell when the' was goin' to appear. Matters 'd go along putty well fer a while, an' then, all of a sudden, an' fer nothin' 't I could see, the' 'd come on a thunder shower 'fore you c'd git in out o' the wet."
"Singular," said John thoughtfully.
"Yes, sir," said David. "Wa'al, it come along to the second spring, 'bout the first of May. She'd ben more like folks fer about a week mebbe 'n she had fer a long spell, an' I begun to chirk up some. I don't remember jest how I got the idee, but f'm somethin' she let drop I gathered that she was thinkin' of havin' a new bunnit. I will say this for her," remarked David, "that she was an economical woman, an' never spent nomoney jest fer the sake o' spendin' it. Wa'al, we'd got along so nice fer a while that I felt more 'n usual like pleasin' her, an' I allowed to myself that if she wanted a new bunnit, money shouldn't stand in the way, an' I set out to give her a supprise."
They had reached the level at the top of the long hill and the horses had broken into a trot, when Mr. Harum's narrative was interrupted and his equanimity upset by the onslaught of an excessively shrill, active, and conscientious dog of the "yellow" variety, which barked and sprang about in front of the mares with such frantic assiduity as at last to communicate enough of its excitement to them to cause them to bolt forward on a run, passing the yellow nuisance, which, with the facility of long practice, dodged the cut which David made at it in passing. It was with some little trouble that the horses were brought back to a sober pace.
"Dum that dum'd dog!" exclaimed David with fervor, looking back to where the object of his execrations was still discharging convulsive yelps at the retreating vehicle, "I'd give a five-dollar note to git one good lick at him. I'd make him holler 'pen-an'-ink'once! Why anybody's willin' to have such a dum'd, wuthless, pestiferous varmint as that 'round 's more 'n I c'n understand. I'll bet that the days they churn, that critter, unless they ketch him an' tie him up the night before, 'll be under the barn all day, an' he's jest blowed off steam enough to run a dog churn a hull forenoon."
Whether or not the episode of the dog had diverted Mr. Harum's mind from his previous topic, he did not resume it until John venturedto remind him of it, with "You were saying something about the surprise for your wife."
"That's so," said David. "Yes, wa'al, when I went home that night I stopped into a mil'nery store, an' after I'd stood 'round a minute, a girl come up an' ast me if she c'd show me anythin'.
"'I want to buy a bunnit,' I says, an' she kind o' laughed. 'No,' I says, 'it ain't fer me, it's fer a lady,' I says; an' then we both laughed.
"'What sort of a bunnit do you want?' she says.
"'Wa'al, I dunno,' I says, 'this is the fust time I ever done anythin' in the bunnit line.' So she went over to a glass case an' took one out an' held it up, turnin' it 'round on her hand.
"'Wa'al,' I says, 'I guess it's putty enough fur 's it goes, but the' don't seem to be much of anythin'toit. Hain't you got somethin' a little bit bigger an'—'
"'Showier?' she says. 'How is this?' she says, doin' the same trick with another.
"'Wa'al,' I says, 'that looks more like it, but I had an idee that the A 1, trible-extry fine article had more traps on't, an' most any one might have on either one o' them you've showed me an' not attrac' no attention at all. You needn't mind expense,' I says.
"'Oh, very well,' she says, 'I guess I know what you want,' an' goes over to another case an' fetches out another bunnit twice as big as either the others, an' with more notions on't than you c'd shake a stick at—flowers, an' gard'n stuff, an' fruit, an' glass beads, an' feathers, an' all that, till you couldn't see what they was fixed on to. She took holt on't with both hands, the girl did, an'put it onto her head, an' kind o' smiled an' turned 'round slow so 't I c'd git a gen'ral view on't.
"'Style all right?' I says.
"'The very best of its kind,' she says.
"'How 'bout thekind?' I says.
"'The very best of its style,' she says."
John laughed outright. David looked at him for a moment with a doubtful grin.
"Shewasa slick one, wa'n't she?" he said. "What a hoss trader she would 'a' made. I didn't ketch on at the time, but I rec'lected afterward. Wa'al," he resumed, after this brief digression, "'how much is it?' I says.
"'Fifteen dollars,' she says.
"'What?' I says. 'Scat my ——! I c'd buy head rigging enough to last me ten years fer that.'
"'We couldn't sell it for less,' she says.
"'S'posin' the lady 't I'm buyin' it fer don't jest like it,' I says, 'can you alter it or swap somethin' else for it?'
"'Cert'nly, within a reasonable time,' she says.
"'Wa'al, all right,' I says, 'do her up.' An' so she wrapped the thing 'round with soft paper an' put it in a box, an' I paid for't an' moseyed along up home, feelin' that ev'ry man, woman, an' child had their eyes on my parcel, but thinkin' how tickled my wife would be."