Opinions as to the personal appearance, probable resources, and moral character of the ex-schoolmaster were found to be as varied as the new and somewhat showy raiment in which he appeared from day to day.
“Thinks he’s too good to walk now ’t he’s got them shiny pointed shoes,” observed Hank Smith, whose footgear was of the square-toed variety, presumably inherited from a deceased relative. “I seen him drivin’ a rig out t’ Preston’s to-day.”
“Yas,” corroborated the local liveryman. “He’s took it b’ the week. Says he’s thinkin’ of buyin’ a good horse.”
“Huh! you don’t say,” drawled a farmer from the hills, who had dropped in for his week’s supply of groceries and his mail. “I s’pose he done pretty well out west? Mebbe I c’d sell him that bay mare o’ mine.”
“He spen’s lots of money; I don’t know how much he’s got,” was the unchallenged opinion put forth by another.
There followed a general oscillation of heads about the empty stove, a round-bellied affair, capable of fierce white heats in the winter time, but abandoned to rust in summer and habitually diffusing a clammy scent of chimney soot and damp ashes.
“I guess the’ don’t anybody know ’s t’ that; I heard him speak o’ minin’ prop’ties kind o’ careless like. He sure does carry a big wad.”
“The table board over t’ the Eagle’s called pretty fair; but ’tain’t good enough fer Whitcomb. He pays extry fer dinner at night.”
“Jus’ so; an’ Sutton’s cook left after he’d been thar a couple o’ weeks. She said she wa’n’t a-goin’ t’ put up with Whitcomb.”
“Wall, I’ll give that young feller about four months t’ run through what he’s got,” the elder Hewett observed, in the intervals of passing various purchases of coffee through his grinder. “I’ll bet I c’d carry all the minin’ prop’ty he owns in m’ vest pocket, an’ hev room fer m’ han’kerchief.”