“Carpet-bag seems pooty well stuffed,” said the tormentor, after having transferred his glance for a moment to the old satchel that occupied half of Phil’s seat.
“Mother wanted a few things that she couldn’t find at any of our stores,” said Phil.
“See anybody ye knowed?” was the next question, after the stare had returned to its principal duty.
“Not much,” Phil replied, with a shiver, well knowing to whom the man alluded. “How did your turnips average on that new ground, Mr. Bloke?”
“Only so-so. Ye put up at old—what the somethin’ was his name?—oh, Trammerly—ye stopped with him, I s’pose?”
“Of course not. Mr. Tramlay doesn’t take boarders.”
“Ort to hev been willin’ to take ye in for a few days, though, I should think, considerin’. Didn’t he even offer to?”
“No. Why should he?” asked Phil, beginning to lose his temper. “He paid his way while he was here; I paid mine in New York.”
“Oh!” drawled the rustic; then he put on a judicial air, and devoted two or three minutes to analyzing Phil’s statement and logic. Either accepting both, or mentally noting an exception for future use, he continued,—
“His gal’s as pooty as ever, I s’pose?”