Seated at the table with the family was a workman, a staunch Whig, who had for some time watched his employer with vigilance, and the slightest occurrence of an unusual nature was enough to rouse his suspicions.
He saw Shoemaker start when the knock was repeated, and, rising hastily, offered to open the door.
“Keep your seat,” exclaimed the farmer; “I open my own doors, and don’t thank any man to be putting on airs, as if he was the owner.”
“Some neighbor, I dare say,” suggested the wife, as her husband walked towards the door in answer to a third signal.
“They’re mighty afeard of coming in,” muttered the Whig, moving restlessly in his chair.
“Manners is manners,” retorted the old lady, sententiously. “You don’t expect strangers to pull the string without knocking; if you do, I don’t.”
As she spoke, the farmer opened the door; a few whispered words passed between him and some one outside; but instead of ushering the visitor into the house, he stepped out and closed the door behind him. Before those within could express their surprise, except by looks, Shoemaker returned, slamming the door, and saying, with a rough laugh:
“Who do you think it was, but that tarnal Jim Davis, come up here, thinking to find Betsy Willets that he was sparking last winter. That are was the rap he used to give by way of sign, to call her out. I told him she wasn’t here now, and sent him off about his business.”
If Shoemaker thought by this to quiet his suspicious friend—he had only awakened a new uneasiness, for during several months back, Master Sim had regarded the aforesaid Betsy with wistful appreciation.
“Consarn the fellow’s impudence!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet; “if I don’t larn him better manners than to be knocking after gals that like his room better’n his company, my name isn’t Sim White.”