“Mr. Tom, Mr. Tom, guess what's happened,” she panted. “You couldn't guess in a thousand years—you couldn't, you couldn't!”
“Then I cal'late I won't try,” retorted the man, grimly, “specially as I hain't got more'n TEN ter live, anyhow, probably. You'd better tell me first off, Nancy.”
“Well, listen, then. Who do you s'pose is in the parlor now with the mistress? Who, I say?”
Old Tom shook his head.
“There's no tellin',” he declared.
“Yes, there is. I'm tellin'. It's—John Pendleton!”
“Sho, now! You're jokin', girl.”
“Not much I am—an' me a-lettin' him in myself—crutches an' all! An' the team he come in a-waitin' this minute at the door for him, jest as if he wa'n't the cranky old crosspatch he is, what never talks ter no one! jest think, Mr. Tom—HIM a-callin' on HER!”
“Well, why not?” demanded the old man, a little aggressively.
Nancy gave him a scornful glance.