Farmer Vance and his wife were taking tea at Mr. Sherman’s. Mrs. Vance and Mrs. Sherman were old schoolmates, and always exchanged yearly visits.
The two gentlemen had talked over the coming election, specie payment, business prospects, and came finally to the Centennial.
Did Mr. Vance think of going? Well, he didn’t know; should like to well enough. Fact was, he’d been unfortunate about his help all summer,—had them off and on; couldn’t think of going unless he found some reliable man to look after things. By the way, did Mr. Sherman know of anybody who wanted to hire out for the rest of the season?
Yes; Mr. Sherman was sure he knew of just the man, or at least a man who needed just such a place. He had been employing him for a few weeks, and could vouch for his willingness and ability. It was Dan Harte, living in that little old house on the corner—
“Dan Harte!” echoed Mr. Vance, laying down his knife and fork.
“Yes, Dan Harte,” repeated Mr. Sherman, reaching for another biscuit; “and a better gardener I wouldn’t ask for.”
“How many sprees has he had in the time?”
“Not one.”
“You’re joking now. Why, I know Dan. He worked for me, years ago. As you say, he was willing and competent, but he would have his times. He was soaked through and through with whiskey then, and he has been going down hill ever since.”
“But you see, he has turned square around and is going up now.”