“Any races?” inquired the farmer from the upper hill road. “‘Cause I’ve got a colt, Black Hawk blood, ’t c’n run like a streak o’ greased lightnin’.”
“Races? Well, natu’ally. The’ll be races every day after the fust, an’ on Sat’day, the closin’ day, the stakes ’ll be a hunderd dollars fer two-year-olds, an’ up fer hosses o’ all ages. I wouldn’t miss it fer more’n I gen’ally carry in loose change. The’ll be some tall bettin’, I persoom.”
“They say that young Whitcomb feller’s quite a sport when ’t comes t’ puttin’ money on any ol’ thing,” drawled young Hewett, who had laid aside his official gravity as he emerged from behind the post-office.
Mr. Morrison looked troubled.
“I guess I’ll be goin’ ’long,” he said, and cast a defiant look around the circle. “Ef I was you,” he said, “I’d keep my mouth shet ’bout things I didn’t know anythin’ ’bout.”
No one answered; but there was a general laugh as his heavy boots were heard to strike the sidewalk.
“Poor old Peleg!” said one. “Them Prestons has kep’ him pretty busy cookin’ up excuses. An’ ef she marries Whitcomb I guess Peleg ’ll be up against it a while longer.”
“‘Twon’t be any time b’fore Jarvis gits another mortgage; mebbe he’ll fetch it this time. ’Tain’t often the ’onor’ble gent gits left. I hed t’ laugh when I heerd she’d paid him off.”
“The’s somethin’ mighty queer ’bout that business, anyhow. Who d’ye suppose anted up with the money?”