‘“Frightful, my dear ma’am; but compose yourself,” said Tom Smart.
‘“Oh, I can’t compose myself,” shrieked the widow. “I shall never find anyone else I can love so much!”
‘“Oh, yes you will, my dear soul,” said Tom Smart, letting fall a shower of the largest-sized tears, in pity for the widow’s misfortunes. Tom Smart, in the energy of his compassion, had put his arm round the widow’s waist; and the widow, in a passion of grief, had clasped Tom’s hand. She looked up in Tom’s face, and smiled through her tears. Tom looked down in hers, and smiled through his.
‘I never could find out, gentlemen, whether Tom did or did not kiss the widow at that particular moment. He used to tell my uncle he didn’t, but I have my doubts about it. Between ourselves, gentlemen, I rather think he did.
‘At all events, Tom kicked the very tall man out at the front door half an hour later, and married the widow a month after. And he used to drive about the country, with the clay-coloured gig with the red wheels, and the vixenish mare with the fast pace, till he gave up business many years afterwards, and went to France with his wife; and then the old house was pulled down.’
‘Will you allow me to ask you,’ said the inquisitive old gentleman, ‘what became of the chair?’
‘Why,’ replied the one-eyed bagman, ‘it was observed to creak very much on the day of the wedding; but Tom Smart couldn’t say for certain whether it was with pleasure or bodily infirmity. He rather thought it was the latter, though, for it never spoke afterwards.’
‘Everybody believed the story, didn’t they?’ said the dirty-faced man, refilling his pipe.
‘Except Tom’s enemies,’ replied the bagman. ‘Some of ‘em said Tom invented it altogether; and others said he was drunk and fancied it, and got hold of the wrong trousers by mistake before he went to bed. But nobody ever minded what they said.’
‘Tom Smart said it was all true?’