CHAPTER LXXIII.
OUT OF A SCRAPE.
"Mr. Hutchins, I am so glad to see you!"
He took her outstretched hands and pressed them together between his two hard palms.
"Jest as sweet as ever; and oh, lots handsomer!" he said, with awkward gallantry.
"This is Paul," said Rose, embarrassed by his rough compliment. "He has not forgotten you."
"Nor I him, by a long shot," answered Tom, with energy. "How are you, old fellow? Know how to speak English, hey?"
Paul laughed, and lost his slender hand in Tom's grasp.
"I've got a little business with you, by-and-by," said Tom; "something terrible mysterious; and nothing would do but I must come right across from Simsbury and bring it myself. You guess, I reckon, what took me out there?"
"To see her?" inquired Paul, in a low voice.
"Yes, nothing else. The old people are getting infirm, and can't travel no more. That trial kinder did them up for going journeys, yet they aint content without hearing all about her every few months. So this time I went up. Had a little chore of my own in that 'ere region, and wasn't backward to go; besides, I raly du feel sorry for them old folks. Not one word have they heard from Nelse Thrasher yet—think he's lost at sea, and that has nigh about broke their hearts. They are getting old now, I tell you."