“I dare say—you may fetch—my cloak and bonnet. Why, if the wench hasn't got them on her arm. What, you made up your mind that I should go, then?”
“That I did,” replied Hannah. “Your warm shawl is in the cart, Mrs. Meadows.”
“Oh! you did, did you. Young folks are apt to be sure and certain. I was in two minds about it, so I don't see how the child could be sure,” said she, dividing her remark between vacancy and the person addressed—a grammatical privilege of old age.
“Oh! but I was sure, for that matter,” replied Hannah firmly.
“And what made the little wench so sure, I wonder?” said the old woman, now in her black bonnet and scarlet cloak.
“Why, la!” says Hannah, “because it's your son, ma'am—and you're his mother, Dame Meadows!”
CHAPTER VI.
JOHN MEADOWS had always been an active man, but now he was indefatigable. He was up at five every morning, and seemed ubiquitous; added a gray gelding to his black mare, and rode them both nearly off their legs. He surveyed land in half a dozen counties—he speculated in grain in half a dozen markets, and did business in shares. His plan in dealing with this ticklish speculation was simple. He listened to nothing anybody said, examined the venture himself, and, if it had a sound basis, bought when the herd was selling, and sold wherever the herd was buying. Hence, he bought cheap and sold dear.
He also lent money, and contrived to solve the usurers' problem—perfect security and huge interest.