“But I don’t want to go to Chelmsford, Gran’fer. Why should I go to Chelmsford?”
“To get his horn, you baggage. And he don’t be wantin’ it.”
“Oh, but he ordered it—it’s too late now.”
“Ay,” said Daniel Quarles, “and goo you shall to git it ef the adder has to bite Methusalem’s heels.”
“But I don’t have to go to Chelmsford for it!”
“You said you’d go to Chelmsford,” burst out Will at last.
“Nothing of the sort.”
“But I’ve got your letter!” He pulled it out, and again that awkward glove fell out. “Ah, there’s your glove I’ve found on the road,” he said, crimsoning furiously.
“Thank you!” She took both letter and glove placidly. “Now I shall have two pairs! But where do I say anything about going to Chelmsford?”
Thus invited, he came and looked down at the paper she held, and gripped an end of it himself, very conscious of her near fingers, and her bared arm, and her bending head. He was about to cry: “Why, there!” when a horrible doubt lest “superscribe” did not mean dashing away, or stampeding, or scurrying, or driving, or even going, checked the exclamation.