“What!” said the old man, “ain’t ye heard? That’s Uncle Sam Wolcott’s. The old man was livin’ there with his daughter and her little b’y.” And Hitchcock took a comfortable pull at his cigar.
“Yes,” said Arthur, “I remember now.”
“The child’s dead,” said he.
“What?” said Arthur. “Dead?”
Hitchcock nodded assent. “Killed him, ye know.”
“Killed him? who—”
“The grandfather—Samuel Wolcott. Killed him with an axe, Sunday week. Them air gospel folks got him crazy.”
The old man spoke with a sort of grim satisfaction, and Arthur looked at him in amazement. “Great heavens! you don’t mean to say he murdered him? Where’s the mother?”
“Lucky for her she warn’t there at the time, I guess. Fust time I ever knew o’ church doing a critter any good.”
“But where is she now?”