“How old is Nancy?” said I; and if I had been a few years older myself, the question might have been significant; but among all the methods I had thought over of acquiring a fortune, that of marrying one was not included.
“O, she’s gray-headed too,” said the boy, “’n a post, ’nd blind ’s a bat. I wish the old man couldn’t swaller a mouthful o’ breakfast till he’d give me half what he’s got.” And with this charitable expression he turned with the cows into the lane, and I saw him no more.
While I was meditating on the venerable but not venerated Mr. Hathaway and his property, a wagon came rumbling along behind me.
“Don’t you want to ride?” said the driver, as I stepped aside to let it pass.
I thanked him, and climbed to a place beside him on the rough seat. He was in his shirt-sleeves, and wore a torn straw hat. He had reddish side-whiskers, and his chin needed shaving, badly.
“Got far to go?” said he, as the team started up again.
“I expect to walk all day,” said I.
“Then you must get a lift when you can,” said he. “Don’t be afraid to ask. A good many that wouldn’t invite you, as I did, would let you ride if you asked them.”
I promised to remember his advice.
“Ever drive a team?” said he.