"Yes, sir," said Samanthy, "walk right in."
She threw open the door of the sitting-room. "Here's a gentleman that wants to see you, Mas' Putnam. Leastwise he asked for Lindy fust."
Samanthy left the room, slamming the door after her.
"My name is Sawyer," said Quincy, addressing the old lady and gentleman who were seated in rocking chairs. "I met your daughter at the concert given at the Town Hall New-Year's night."
Mrs. Putnam said, "Glad to see ye, Mr. Sawyer; have a chair."
As Quincy laid his hand upon the chair, the old gentleman called out in a voice that would have startled a bull of Bashan, "What's his name, Heppy?"
Mrs. Putnam answered in a shrill voice with an edge like a knife, "Sawyer."
"Sawyer!" yelled the man. "Any relation to Jim Sawyer that got drunk, beat his wife, starved his children, and finally ended up in the town Poorhouse?"
Quincy shook his head and replied, "I think not. I don't live here; I live in Boston."