“I never did think there was sech a sight o’ difference between city folks and country folks. Neow ye’ve seen this same performance in the place where you live, I take it?”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Clarke.
“An’ ye really think the young folks here hev done it abeout as well as the folks down to New York, do ye?”
“There were differences, of course. You must expect that.”
“Of course; of course,” said Ethan, delightedly. “Mebbe ye’d like to go over to Mis’ Brown’s. The young folks have gone there. They’re to have some ice cream, I b’lieve. ’Twon’t cost ye much, fur it’s only eight cents a dish, two fur fifteen.”
As it was not late, the invitation was eagerly accepted, an added zest being given when it was learned that the profits from the sale of the cream were to be added to those of the play, and that all were to be expended for the improvement of the walks in the little hamlet. The party accordingly made their way down the rough stairway and along the street, Tom having previously left them, and soon arrived at “Mis’ Brown’s,” or the “Widow Brown’s,” as she was familiarly called by her neighbors.
Her establishment was found to be a unique one. A small “store” was in the front of the building, and on the few shelves were seen jars containing some toothsome, though apparently venerable, sticks of candy. Slate pencils, a few forlorn articles of “fancy work,” spools of thread and such like necessities were the other parts of her stock in trade, but the sounds of revelry which came from an inner room left no doubt in the minds of the visitors as to the place where the ice cream was to be had, or as to the occupation which was then going on at the time.
Ethan boldly led the way, and as the door was opened, two long tables were seen, upon which were dishes of the famous article for which our party had come, and upon which the “young folks” already there were feasting. The unexpected entrance brought a solemn hush upon the room, and one young fellow who was standing near the head of one of the tables suddenly sank into his seat again.
“That’s Tim Wynn,” whispered Ethan. “He’s been cuttin’ up for the young folks, I s’pose. He’s awfully funny, an’ they all like to have him ’round.”
“There doesn’t seem to be any place for us,” suggested Mr. Clarke. “Perhaps we’d better not stop to-night.”