“What do they laugh at you for—’cause I choose to fiddle?”
“Your actions, I suppose,” she replied, indignantly; “’tain’t likely I’ve told ’em all the things you’ve said to me. If I had, I know my friends would insist on my settling things right off—but I’m hard to coax, very hard, Sim.”
Her hand went down on his arm again, and this time Sim rather took it of his own accord.
“Are you?” he said, doubtfully; “I guess not very hard—be you, Aun—Polly?”
“Oh, Sim, you shouldn’t have spoken out so sudden—women is sensitive creeturs. Wal, I don’t know; I wouldn’t say yes to any other man, as plenty of ’em could tell you from experience; but since it’s you, Sim, there, just let out that stirrup-leather a trifle.”
She gathered the skirts decorously around her feet while Sim performed this duty, and rested her hand on his shoulder in settling herself again. Sim looked a little puzzled, and somewhat unappreciative of the honor Aunt Polly had bestowed upon him; but he passed it off with better grace than could have been expected, and even called her outright by her baptismal appellation.
“I’m goin’ now,” said the old maid, crimsoning with delight. “I shall have to get some of the gals to come and stay a while with me. It wouldn’t be proper for us to be alone in the house, you know. I guess we’ll have to hurry things, too, on their account; for they can’t none of ’em stay away from home long. Good-bye, Sim; never mind the garding—good-bye. Get up, Gineral Washington. Come over early, Sim—and oh, you’ll find some new gingerbread in the stone crock. I’ve put out a nice dinner for you. Good-bye, Sim.”
She rode off, and left Sim standing in the road, buried in deep thought.
“Wal,” he said at length, putting a fresh morsel of tobacco in his mouth, and speaking aloud, “she seems to think it’s all settled; and I don’t know as I much mind, either way. I’d kind o’ like to show Betsy Willets, too, that I don’t care a rush for her marryin’ Jim Davis—consarn her! The old maid’s worth having, any way; this is just as good a farm as there is in all Wyoming, and the tavern stand ain’t so bad as it might be. A feller might go farther and fare worse. Besides, ’tain’t manners, dad used to say, to look a gift horse in the mouth—so, if she’s suited, let it go.”
Sim gave his head a philosophical shake and turned towards the barn, whistling Yankee Doodle as he went. There were a few tremulous variations now and then, which threatened to subside into Old Hundred, as an image of the faithless Betsy would present itself; but Sim solaced his mind by glancing about the neat, thrifty-looking premises, and fell to whistling harder than before, conscientiously repeating the parts which he had slurred over with a firmness that would have satisfied Aunt Polly herself.