In no long time the waggon reached the outskirts of the town, where the highway became a part of the wide street that ran through the centre of Shady Dale, flowing around the old court-house in the semblance of a wide river embracing a small island. Gabriel and Cephas were on the point of leaving the waggon here, but Mr. Sanders was of another mind.
"Ride on to Dorrin'tons' wi' us," he said. "I want to swap a joke or two wi' Mrs. Ab."
"She's sure to get the best of it," Gabriel warned him.
"Likely enough, but that won't spile the fun," responded Mr. Sanders.
Mrs. Absalom, as she was called, was the wife of Mr. Goodlett, and was marked off from the great majority of her sex by her keen appreciation of humour. Her own contributions were spoiled for some, for the reason that she gave them the tone of quarrelsomeness; whereas, it is to be doubted whether she ever gave way to real anger more than once or twice in her life. She was Dr. Randolph Dorrington's housekeeper, and was a real mother to Nan, who was motherless before she had drawn a dozen breaths of the poisonous air of this world.
By the time the waggon reached Dorrington's, Gabriel, acting on the instructions of Mr. Sanders, had crawled under the cover of the waggon, and was holding out a pair of old shoes, so that a passer-by would imagine that some one was lying prone in the waggon with his feet sticking out.
When the waggon reached the Dorrington Place, Mr. Sanders drew rein, and hailed the house, having signed to Cephas to make himself invisible. Evidently Mrs. Absalom was in the rear, or in the kitchen, which was a favourite resort of hers, for the "hello" had to be repeated a number of times before she made her appearance. She came wiping her face on her ample apron, and brushing the hair from her eyes. She was always a busy housekeeper.
"We're huntin', ma'am, for a place called Cloptons'," said Mr. Sanders in a falsetto voice, his hat pulled down over his eyes; "an' we'd thank you might'ly ef you'd put us on the right road. About four mile back, we picked up a' old snoozer who calls himself William H. Sanders, an' he keeps on talkin' about the Clopton Place."
"Why, the Clopton Place is right down the road a piece. What in the world is the matter wi' old Billy?" she inquired with real solicitude. "Was he wounded in the war, or is he jest up to some of his old-time devilment?"
"Well, ma'am, from the looks of the jimmyjon we found by his side, he must 'a' shot hisself in the neck. He complains of cold feet, an' he's got 'em stuck out from under the kiver."