“No, sir,” said Peg, facing about and addressing the inquiring circle of eyes as one man. “No, sir; Miss Barb’ry ain’t gone, an’ as fer ’s I know, she’ll be home, anyhow, till after the apples is picked.”
Mr. Morrison would have warmly disclaimed any intention of discussing his mistress’s business with outsiders; but he felt it incumbent upon himself, as the surviving feudal representative, as it were, of the Preston family, to correct erroneous public opinion.
“Goin’ t’ gether a pretty fair crop this year, I see,” observed the village veterinary, who combined the business of livery and sale stable with his more learned profession.
“You bet,” chuckled Peg. “W’y, them apples ’ll beat anythin’ in the county. We’re goin’ t’ exhibit at th’ fair, same ’s we ust to.”
“Apples is goin’ t’ be so cheap y’ can’t git nothin’ fer ’em,” said a farmer pessimistically. “Ef they don’t all drop off the trees come September, it’s bein’ s’ dry.”
“Our apples won’t drop, I’ll bet you,” bragged Peg. “We’ve kep’ th’ ground in our orchards ploughed an’ cultivated all summer. Miss Barb’ry, she kind o’ got that notion las’ spring f’om readin’ some gov’ment report, an’ jus’ to humor her I done ’s she said.”
“‘Tain’t no way to do,” put in another. “The grass prevents th’ roots f’om heavin’; keeps ’em cool in summer an’ warm in winter. Y’ don’t ketch me payin’ any ’tention to them blamed gov’ment reports. Now the Republicans is in, y’ can’t b’lieve a word ’at comes f’om Washin’ton.”
No one being immediately minded to disprove this sweeping statement, there was brief silence for a space. Then a new topic was introduced.
“Say, Peleg, when’s the weddin’ comin’ off to your place?”
“The weddin’? what weddin’?” parried Peg cautiously. “I ain’t heerd o’ no weddin’.”