Hephzibah laughed and said she guessed that was so, she hadn't thought of it in that way.
“Probably dreams are all nonsense,” she admitted. “Usually, I don't pay much attention to 'em. But when I dream of poor 'Little Frank,' away off there, I—”
“Come into the sitting-room, Jim,” I put in hastily. “I have a cigar or two there. I don't buy them in Bayport, either.”
“And who,” asked Jim, as we sat smoking by the fire, “is Little Frank?”
“He is a mythical relative of ours,” I explained, shortly. “He was born twenty years ago or so—at least we heard that he was; and we haven't heard anything of him since, except by the dream route, which is not entirely convincing. He is Hephzy's pet obsession. Kindly forget him, to oblige me.”
He looked puzzled, but he did not mention “Little Frank” again, for which I was thankful.
That afternoon we walked up to the village, stopping in at Simmons's store, which is also the post-office, for the mail. Captain Cyrus Whittaker happened to be there, also Asaph Tidditt and Bailey Bangs and Sylvanus Cahoon and several others. I introduced Campbell to the crowd and he seemed to be enjoying himself. When we came out and were walking home again, he observed:
“That Whittaker is an interesting chap, isn't he?”
“Yes,” I said. “He is all right. Been everywhere and seen everything.”
“And that,” with an odd significance in his tone, “may possibly help to make him interesting, don't you think?”