“HE MUST ’A’ HAD A MIGHTY LEETLE CROP.”
“What?” said Virginia.
He repeated his assertion.
“Ef that’s true,” she said, slowly, “I ain’ goin’ to bother my head ’bout ’em; such fools oughter die.”
(Be that as it may, she “bothered” herself enough to tramp on foot all the way to Annesville, some eight miles, that very afternoon, and offer her services as sick-nurse. The house fortunately was under quarantine, and there was assistance enough.)
“But that ain’ nothin’ ter th’ skyarlet-fever over the mounting,” Mr. Scott pursued, in a tone whose threadbare lugubriousness revealed the morbid satisfaction which lined it. “That’s fyar howlin’; an’ they sez, moresomeover, ez how it can be kyard an’ took from a little bit o’ rag.”
Old Herrick, who had come again to the window, was listening intently. “’S that so?” he said, finally. “Well, consequently were, the beauty of that question air, thar ain’ much rag trade goin’ on between that side o’ th’ mounting an’ t’other. Hyeah! hyeah!”
“How can you laugh, father?” said the girl.
“Godamighty, gyrl! I ain’ laufin’ at the folks as is got the fever, but at them as ain’t.”