"I am indeed fortunate. In the first place, then this man Frump is really--dead?"
The carpenter pulled his rough hat farther over his forehead, and replied:
"As dead as two big splits in the skull could make him. But 'xcuse me, sir; he was my bosom friend, and I can't bear to talk of his death."
"He is dead, then, and no mistake," said Matthew, soliloquizing. "Yet I am not exactly glad to know it."
The carpenter's face expressed surprise at this remark.
"I beg your pardon," said Matthew. "Of course I am not glad to hear of your friend's death. But, to tell the truth," he continued (inventing an excuse), "I had always heard that this Frump was a wild fellow; that he didn't treat his wife decently, and at last ran away from her. You see I am acquainted with the family. In fact, I know Mrs. Frump quite well."
"And did she tell you all this about her dead husband?" asked the carpenter.
"Oh, no!" returned Matthew, who began to fear that he had gone too far. "She never says anything about his personal character. I only spoke from common report."
"Then common report is a common liar; for I know there never was a steadier chap than this same Amos Frump; and his wife can't say that he ever struck her, or said a cross word to her. Amos told me all about himself; and I'd believe him through thick and thin." The carpenter spoke in his dismal chest voice, without the least indication of excitement.
"Then why did he leave his wife? and why did she never hear of him until the time of his death? You will confess that that was odd."