It was a speech of unusual length, and, after making it, he slowly settled into silence.
"Nat wouldn't mind if I was in the poorhouse, so long as he could get me out," said his daughter, taking up the cudgels in defence of her lover's disinterestedness.
Amos Burr chuckled.
"Don't you set no store by that," he rejoined.
"An' don't you set about judgin' other folks by yourself, Amos Burr," retorted his wife sharply. "'Tain't likely you'd ever pull anybody out o' the poorhouse 'thout slippin' in yourself, seein' as I've slaved goin' on twenty years to keep you from land-in' thar at last. The less you say about some things the better. Now, you'd jest as well set down an' eat your supper."
II
The next day Nicholas went into Tom Bassett's office, where he met Dudley Webb, who was spending a dutiful week in Kingsborough. He was a genial young fellow, with a clear-cut, cleanly shaven face and a handsome head covered with rich, dark hair. His hands were smooth and white, and he gesticulated rapidly as he talked. It was already said of him that he told a poor story better than anybody else told a good one—a fact which was probably the elemental feature of his popularity.
As Nicholas looked in, he raised himself lightly from Tom's desk chair and gave him a hearty handshake.
"Hello, Burr! We were just talking of you. I was telling Tom a jolly thing I heard yesterday. Two farmers were discussing you at the post-office, and one of them said: ''Tain't that he's got so much sense—I had a sight more at his age—but he's so blamed sure of himself, he makes you believe in him.' How's that for fame?"