“No, I didn’t have to do that. But I told him something he’ll remember. You know Andy thinks all the Tramworth girls are just waiting to marry him. Besides, he drinks whiskey, and I’ll never marry a man who does that.”
“I ain’t howlin’ temp’rance m’self,” said her father, “but you’re plumb c’rrect, leetle gal.” He paused for a moment and contemplated the bowl of his pipe. “Dave Ross don’t drink—thet is, so fur as I know.”
Swickey ignored his reference to David. “Andy promised to quit drinking—”
“Did he quit fust or promise fust?” Avery’s tone conveyed a certain degree of skepticism.
“I don’t know.” She arose and went to her father, throwing her arms round his neck. “I don’t know, Pop. I wish,” she sobbed, “I wish my mother was here to talk to.”
“Thar, thar, leetle gal, I wisht she was too. Many’s the time I’ve been wantin’ to talk to her ’bout—wal, you, fur instance, and lots of other things. See, you’re makin’ Smoke feel bad, to say nothin’ of your Pa. I don’t care how many fellers wants to marry you, so long as they don’t. Thar! now you’ve upset my pipe right on your dress.”
Swickey hurriedly disengaged herself and brushed the ashes from her skirt.
“Dave says in his letter thet thet young Bascomb, the surveyor feller, is comin’ up with him. They ought to be along purty soon now.”
“What! that Mr. Bascomb that tried to buy our place—and get the asbestos?”
“Yes, thet’s the feller.”