“Let’s go to sleep,” said Ned, as he got up from his prayers, and fell over on the bed. We let!
[CHAPTER XVI.]
We were yet at the table when Reuben came in to announce that Mr. Bemby’s son had come. We went out to the porch, where he was sitting, his elbow on the railing, his chin on his elbow, his white wool hat, without a band, hanging down like the eaves of a barn over his wheat straw hair, his red fuzzy wrists, sticking about three inches out of his coarse flax coat sleeves, and his broad copper riveted shoes gaping so wide about his bony ankles that they seemed to have frightened his speckled pants half way up his legs; his poles, lashed together with old leather shoe strings, stood against the railing, and his bait-gourd sat on the bench at his side. He greeted us with a “good mornin’ to you,” and a smile, without any sound whatever. We all shook hands with him, Frank barely tipping his fingers, then went back into the house to get our hats and tackle. Reuben came out with our dinner in a large basket and we were about to start, when Frank ran back up stairs, and soon joined us, holding his coat over something against his side. As soon as we got into the lane he took out a large black bottle of whisky and a bundle of cigars. I said nothing, but I could see that Ned was disturbed that Frank should attempt to do the “fast” with us, for neither of us were yet sophisticated enough to smoke or drink. Ben, however, smiled, and prolonged his laugh as he shook the bottle and watched the bead.
“That’s fine as cat hair,” he said, returning the bottle to Frank. “Licker’s purtty much like er hole in the groun’; keeps you warm in winter and cool in summer; but less pearten er little; we got er right smart ways to walk now, an’ it’ll be hot enough presn’ly to curl er turckle’s shell.”
We accordingly walked on rapidly, Ned and I together, and Frank and Ben. Frank, however, had too much of the haughty about him for Ben, who soon fell back and gave us the benefit of his ever-going tongue.
“How far is the place where you expect to fish, Mr. Bemby?” inquired Ned.
“None er your misters for me; jus’ call me Ben,” said he, shifting his poles from one shoulder to another. “I’m er gwine to take you up to old Nancy Mucket’s hole.”
“Nancy who?” I asked. “What in the world do they call it by such a name, for?”