“We sometimes do fur hungry folks what come here to ketch boats,” said the grocer. “We done had our grub long ago, but I reckon mebbe Betsy can fix ye up suthin’. I’ll go an’ see.”
As the man said this he took Bob’s valise from his hand, and disappeared with it through a door in the rear of the store. He was gone about five minutes, and when he came out he announced that Betsy would have some breakfast ready very shortly, and while she was preparing it, he and Bob would put the horse in the stable and feed him. Bob followed him across the street, and while he was unhitching the animal the grocer stood by and gave him a good looking over. “Whar did ye get this creetur, stranger?” he asked at length.
“My father raised him,” was the reply. “He has never had any owner but me.”
“An’ what might yer name be?”
“Owens.”
“An’ whar might ye hang out when yer to hum?”
“Two miles east of Rochdale.”
“Why couldn’t ye take a boat thar as well as here?” asked the man, looking steadily into Bob’s face.
“Because I had some business to transact a few miles below here, and I could save time by coming to Linwood,” answered the boy, without the least hesitation. “I should have lost a day or two if I had gone back to Rochdale.”
“Yer goin’ up the river, ye say: how fur?”