“I know who it is,” said M'Cormick, with a finger on the side of his nose to imply intense cunning. “I know all about it.”
“What do you know?—what do you mean by all about it?” said Dill, with an eagerness he could not repress.
“Just as much as yourselves,—there now! Just as much as yourselves!” said he, sententiously.
“But apparently, Major, you know far more,” said Polly.
“Maybe I do, maybe I don't; but I 'll tell you one thing, Dill, for your edification, and mind me if I 'm not right: you 're all mistaken about him, every one of ye!”
“Whom are you talking of?” asked the doctor, sternly.
“Just the very man you mean yourself, and no other! Oh, you need n't fuss and fume, I don't want to pry into your family secrets. Not that they 'll be such secrets tomorrow or next day,—the whole town will be talking of them,—but as an old friend that could, maybe, give a word of advice—”
“Advice about what? Will you just tell me about what?” cried Dill, now bursting with anger.
“I 've done now. Not another word passes my lips about it from this minute. Follow your own road, and see where it will lead ye?”
“Cannot you understand, Major M'Cormick, that we are totally unable to guess what you allude to? Neither papa nor I have the very faintest clew to your meaning, and if you really desire to serve us, you will speak out plainly.”