“Ye won’t git ’nother chance, I’ll bet!” declared a third.
“What do ye s’pose she’s here for,” queried a fourth, “to draw the int’rest on her money, or what?”
It was precisely four-forty-five when Chip appeared before this judge and jury of all Riverton’s happenings. At five-forty-five they had agreed that she was the handsomest young lady who had ever set foot in the town, that she must be going to get married soon, and that her mission there was to draw out a few thousand dollars for wedding finery. Then they dispersed, and at six-forty-five, when they assembled at the Quaboag again, half of Riverton knew their conclusions, and by bedtime all knew them.
By eight-thirty next morning, this all-observant and all-wise clique had gathered in the hotel office once more, an unusual proceeding, and when Chip tripped out, eight pairs of eyes watched her depart. Then they dispersed.
At nine o’clock Chip walked up the stone steps to the bank door, read the legend, “Open from 10 a.m. until 2 p.m.,” turned away, and once more resumed her leisurely stroll up and down the street while she peered into store windows. At ten precisely by the four church clocks she was back at the bank again, and the cashier lost count of the column he was adding when he saw her enter.
“I would like three hundred dollars, if you please, sir,” she said, presenting her little book, and he had to count it over four times, to make sure the amount was right. Then he passed the thick bundle of currency out under his latticed window, seeing only the two wide-open, fathomless eyes and dimpled face that had watched him, and feeling, as he afterward admitted, like fifty cents.
And now ensued an experience the like of which poor Chip had never even dreamed,–the supreme joy of spending money without stint for those near and dear to her. And what a medley of gifts she bought! Two silk dress patterns, two warm wraps, three winter hats, a gold watch for Miss Phinney, an easy-chair, two of the finest pipes she could find, a trout rod, four pairs of gloves, and finally a gun for Nezer. Then as her roll of money grew less, she began to pick up smaller articles,–handkerchiefs, slippers, and the like.
“Send them to the hotel, please,” she said to one and all of whom she purchased articles of any size, “marked for Vera McGuire.”
That was enough!
Riverton had sensations, mild ones, of course. Now and then a fire had occurred, once an elopement. Occasionally a horse ran away, causing damage to some one. But nothing had occurred to compare with the arrival of a supposed fabulously rich young lady who came without escort, who walked into and out of stores like a young goddess, noticing no one, and who spent money as if it were autumn leaves.