“Have you any debtors from Stockbridge?” asked Perez, suddenly.
“A hull slew on em,” replied Bement. “I've got one more'n I shall hev much longer, tew.”
“Who be that?” asked Zeke.
“Wal, I callate George Fennell won't hole out much longer.”
“Fennell; George Fennell! George Fennell is not in this jail,” cried Perez.
“Wal, naow,” said Bement, imperturbably, “perhaps ye know better'n I dew.”
“But, landlord, he's my friend, my comrade, I'd like to see him,” and the young man's countenance expressed the liveliest concern.
The landlord seemed to hesitate. Finally he turned his head and called, “Marthy”, and a plump, kitten-like little woman appeared at a door, opening into the end of the bar, whereupon, the landlord, as he jerked his thumb over his shoulder to indicate their guest, remarked:
“He wants ter know if 'ee kin be let ter see George Fennell. Says he's his fren, an uster know him to the war.”
Mrs. Bement looked at the officer and said, “Wal, my husbun don' genally keer to hev folks a seein the pris'ners, coz it makes em kinder discontented like.” She hesitated a little and then added, “But I dunno's 'twill dew no harm Cephas, bein as Fennell won' las' much longer anyhow.”