“Sure—sure,” they all exclaimed.
“Now, Joe, you mus' dry yo' tears an' become reconciled—we've got a nice scheme fixed for you.”
“I'll never be reconciled—never,” wailed Joe. “Liza's dead an'—I'm a grasshopper.”
“Now, wait till I explain to you—but, dear, devoted friend, everything is ready. The widder's been seen an' all you've got to do is to come with us and get her.”
“She's a mighty handsome 'oman,” said Jud, winking his eye. “Dear—dear frien's—all—I'm feelin' reconciled already”—said Joe.
They all joined in the roar. Jud winked. They all winked. Jud went on:
“Joe, dear, dear Joe—we have had thy welfare at heart, as the books say. We wanted thee to become a millionaire. Thou hast eleven children to begin with. They pay you—”
“Eighteen dollars a week, clear,”—said Joe proudly.
“Well, now, Joe—it's all arranged—you marry the widder an' in the course of time you'll have eleven mo'. That's another eighteen dollars—or thirty-six dollars a week clear in the mills.”
“Now, but I hadn't thought of that,” said Joe enthusiastically—“that's a fact. When—when did you say the ceremony'd be performed?”