“Nothing,” said I; “I’m only a traveler not a peddler. Can you tell me whose house that is?”
“That big white one?” said he; “that’s Hathaway’s.”
“It looks new,” said I.
“Yes, ’tis, spick an’ span,” said he. “Hathaway’s jest moved into it; used to live in that little brown one over there.”
“Mr. Hathaway must be rich,” said I.
“Jolly! I guess he is!—wish I was half as rich,” said the boy. “Made ’s money on the rise of prop’ty. Used to own all this land round here, when ’twas a howlin’ wilderness. I’ve heard dad say so lots o’ times. There he is now.”
“Who?—your father?” said I.
“No; Hathaway.” And the boy pointed to a very old, white-headed man, who was leaning on a cane, and looking up at the cornice of the house.
“He looks old,” said I.
“He is, awful old,” said the boy. “Can’t live much longer. His daughter Nancy’ll take the hull. Ain’t no other relations.”