“Thank you; I’ll accept her gladly,” I cried; “but it won’t cost much to bring her around, and hadn’t you better pay her owner for the damage done, and let him keep her?”
“No; I’ve given her to you, and that’s settled.”
“Then let me thank you again, sir,” I said warmly, greatly pleased at his generosity.
“Humph! it isn’t much. May I ask who you are?”
“I am Reuben Stone. I run my father’s mill over at Torrent Bend River.”
“Indeed! Rather young to run a mill alone.”
“I have a man to help me. I was brought up about the place.”
“I see. My name is William Markham. I am in the dry-goods trade in New York. This is my wife and my son Willie, and this is Mr. Brown, an intimate friend.”
I acknowledged the various introductions as best I could. Every one was wet, and scarcely presentable; but in that particular we were all on a level, and I did not feel abashed.
We were now approaching the Bayport shore, and Mr. Markham asked me to stop at the hotel’s private wharf, which I did.