Several of the villagers saw him. In a body they left the steps of Lem Briggs’ grocery store, where they had been loafing and blocked the sidewalk.
“How de do, Mr. Worthen?” said one. “Fine day ter-day.”
“Haw!” said old Jacob. “That reminds me, Cy Jones, I’ve got a little note of yourn that runs out next Tewsday. I s’pose ye’ll be reddy to pay. I need the money.”
“’Cordin’ to what I hear,” said another of the group, “you can’t be needin’ money much jest now, Mr. Worthen. They do say you’ve sold the old Merriwell place.”
“Sold it!” snapped the richest man in Bloomfield. “I had to give it away. Best place in this town, too; but it’s hoodooed. Been a constant outset to me ever sence it came inter my hands. Then stories about it bein’ ha’nted ruined its valoo. Didn’t nobody want to buy it, an’ I couldn’t keep a tenant on it. Yes, sir, I hed to give it away.”
“Who bought it?”
“One of them smart city lawyer chaps. He bought it for another party, too. S’pose if I’d knowed who wanted it I might ’a’ got a thousan’ or so more fer it.”
“Well, who was it that wanted it?”
“Old Asher Merriwell’s nevvy. Mebbe some of ye remembers him? Ruther smart-lookin’ young chap last time I saw him.”
“Why,” said Cy Jones, “I heerd he lost all his money an’ was poor.”