Not sick, but mortified and penniless. To such people publicity is not attractive.
"I don't know what it is," said granny, "but Miss Perkins says she hearn there has been trouble down in the saloon."
Miss Perkins was a gossip with a news-bag that seemed to have the depth and roominess of the Atlantic.
"Awful place, ain't it, granny, where they sell rum?"
Granny turned on him--turned quickly, fiercely.
"Bartholomew!"
She rarely addressed him that way. When she did she meant something serious. Bart's timorous face shrank before her sharp, fierce gaze.
"Bartholomew, I want you to promise never to sell rum. Put your hand on this Bible!"
"Oh, I--I never will sell."
"And you won't drink it? Promise!"