But, aw! if I only had ’a’ knowed how that idear of hisn was a-goin’ t’ grow!–that idear of him turnin’ Cupid fer me, y’ savvy. And if only I’d ’a’ knowed what a turrible bust-up he’d fin’lly be responsible fer ’twixt me and the same grey-eyed, sassy-winkered gal! If I had, it’s a cinch I’d ’a’ sit on him hard–right then and there.
I didn’t, though. I switched back on to what was a-puzzlin’ and a-worryin’ me. “Billy Trowbridge,” I begun, “has waited too long a’ready fer Rose Andrews. And if things don’t come to a haid right soon, he’ll lose her.”
Hairoil give a kinda jump. “The Widda Andrews,” he says, “–Zach Sewell’s gal? So you’re a-plannin’ t’ interfere in the doin’s of ole man Sewell’s fambly.”
“Yas.”
He reached fer my hand and squz it, and pretended t’ git mournful, like as if he wasn’t never goin’ t’ see me again. “My pore friend!” he says.
“Wal, what’s eatin’ you now?” I ast.
“Nothin’–only that pretty gal I tole you about, she’s––”
Then he stopped short.
“She’s what?”
He let go of my hand, shrug his shoulders, and started off. “Never mind,” he called back. “Let it drop. We’ll just see. Mebbe, after all, you’ll git the very lesson you oughta have. Ole man Sewell!” And, shakin’ his haid, he turned the corner of the deepot.