At these words the bland expression suddenly left the woman's face, and she straightened herself up haughtily in her chair.
"Mr. Dimock is of good family, so I understand," she challenged.
"'Deed he is," was Abner's unexpected agreement. "I knew Ikey's dad well, an' he was the best man I ever saw at steerin' clear of a job. Why, when he was with me on my old Flyin' Scud he spent most of his time plannin' how to git clear of his work. He surely was great at that."
"But he was honest, at any rate, was he not?" the woman asked, now visibly annoyed.
"Honest? He was the honestest man I ever sot eyes on. Why, he was so honest that he was allus tryin' to take care of his neighbors' property. Everythin' he could git his hands on he would take home. He was so honest that at last his neighbors allus kept their barns an' stables locked."
"Do you mean to tell me that he was a thief?" the woman demanded. "You seem to have a very poor opinion of him."
"Yaas, almost as poor an opinion as old Judge Watkins, who sentenced him to six months in jail fer stealin' oats from Bill Armstrong's barn. Ye kin call that anythin' ye like, but the Judge called it stealin', an' he ginerally knew what he was talkin' about."
The woman was evidently much annoyed at this candid portrayal of the elder Dimock. She glanced toward the door as if meditating a speedy departure. Abner noted this, and it amused him.
"I wonder what in time's keepin' Tildy," he remarked. "She ginerally comes home like a steam engine, pantin' an' puffin', when I blow the horn at this time of the day. I wish to goodness she'd come, fer I was never any good at entertainin' company, 'specially women."
"You have certainly entertained me in a most unexpected, and, I might add, unpleasant, manner," the woman retorted. "I am not fond of having past histories raked up. It isn't pleasant."