“I was kind of disap’inted in you when you didn’t come home at all. But, ‘Boys will be boys,’ says I, ‘which won’t prevent my speakin’ my mind to him if he hain’t ready with a good excuse, which mostly young men is ready with and ain’t usually believed; but what kin a body do about it?’”
“I hope you’ll do nothing rash,” Jim said, with specious soberness. “You won’t put me out in the street, will you?”
“If it had been any of my husbands I’ll bet I’d ’a’ knowed the reason why,” she said, and disappeared into the kitchen, with an aggrieved air.
Jim went out smiling; somehow the widow’s threatened scolding put him in a better humor with the world. It was good to know that somebody in Diversity had a real, friendly, motherly interest in him.
His way led past Zaanan Frame’s office. Zaanan was standing on the step.
“Afternoon,” said the old justice. “Hain’t much battered up as I kin see.”
“I’m practically intact,” Jim said, gaily.
“Folks round town has it there was consid’able trouble to the mill last night. You was reported laid up in bed with grievous injuries. Calc’lated I’d come round to see you.”
“Nothing much. I just took Moran down to point out a circumstance to him.”
“Moran? What’s he got to do with it?”