It is safe to leave him with his father's friends, for surely his lines had fallen in a pleasant place.
CHAPTER XVIII. — AN OLD STRIFE RENEWED
It was February and the air was stinging cold. It was one of those nights such as Lowell wrote about in “The Courtin'.”
“God makes sech nights, all white an' still
Fur'z you can look or listen,
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill,
All silence an' all glisten.”
In the store of the Strout and Maxwell Company quite a number of the town's people were gathered about the big air-tight stove which was kept stuffed full of wood by willing hands and from which came great waves of almost scorching heat.
Such congregations of villagers are often said to be composed of loafers and loungers, but it was not so at Fernborough. The men who represented the brains and marrow of the town met there. It was the home of the town debating society and supplied a free forum for the discussion of public questions. If the advanced ideas in statesmanship and social economy incubated there could have become the property of the nation, our country would have grown wiser and better.
But for the intense cold the company gathered there on the evening in question would have been much larger. Benoni Hill, the former proprietor of the store and the richest man in town, did not think his wealth was any reason why he should hold aloof or consider himself above his neighbours, whose patronage had been the foundation of his fortune. He was given an old arm-chair while the others sat upon soap-boxes and nail-kegs. Cobb's Twins, William and James, were there, Emmanuel Howe, the minister's son, and Bob Wood who still sang bass in the village church choir.
The store door was opened letting in a gust of cold air which made all draw nearer to the red-hot stove. The newcomer was Samuel Hill, Benoni's son.