“I was goin' to say, Pashy, that—that—I asked if you thought the fog was as thick as ever.”
“Oh, dear me! Yes, I s'pose likely 'tis,” was the discouraged answer.
“Seems to me I never see such weather for this time of year. The ice is all out of the bay, and there ain't a bit of wind, and it's warm as summer, pretty nigh. Kind of a storm-breeder, I'm afraid.”
“Well, I'm glad you're here to keep me comp'ny. I've never been sole alone in this house afore, and I should be dreadful lonesome if you hadn't come.” This was offered as a fresh bait.
“Pashy, I've got somethin' I wanted to ask you. Do you think you could—er—er—”
“What, Perez?”
“I wanted to ask you”—the Captain swallowed several times—“to ask you—What in the nation is that?”
“Oh, that's nothin' only the hens squawkin'. Go on!”
“Yes, but hens don't squawk this time of night 'thout they have some reason to. It's that fox come back; that's what 'tis.”
Miss Patience, earlier in the evening, had related a harrowing tale of the loss of two of Mrs. Mayo's best Leghorns that had gone to furnish a Sunday meal for a marauding fox. As the said Leghorns were the pride of the old lady's heart, even the impending proposal was driven from Miss Davis' mind.