“‘Twon’t take him that long if he keeps on as he’s goin’ now. I heerd”—and the speaker leaned forward, bringing the legs of his chair to the floor with a thump—“‘at he’s pretty fast; drinks consid’ble an’ plays cards fer money. Wonder if she knows?”
“Barb’ry’d ought t’ look out, if he’s that kind,” observed another, wagging his pendulous chin-whiskers. “Her pa’d ought t’ be a serious warnin’ t’ her.”
“Shaw! ’tain’t so,” put in a third. “Dave’s all right. He ain’t so slow’s to be actually mossy; but he’s all right. I’ll bet you——”
What the speaker was about to wager on his charitable opinion was lost to the public as Peg Morrison stubbed noisily up the steps, and entered the door, swung hospitably wide to dust, flies, and the travelling public.
“Hello, Peg; how’s your folks?” drawled Al Hewett, presenting his round, solemn face at the square aperture devoted to the delivery of mail. “Le’ me see; here’s a paper fer you, an’ a circ’lar,—one o’ them phosphate ads you’ve been gettin’ lately. An’ a letter fer Miss Barb’ra. Do you want I should forward it—eh?”
“Forward it—no; give it t’ me.”
Mr. Morrison’s voice held an exasperated note discouraging to those in quest of information.
“Then she ain’t left yet?” queried an individual, comfortably seated over the cool recesses of the pickle barrel. “Somebody was sayin’——”