"Why, yes, I told you he did, in Wisconsin, where he and I used to live."
"Hum. . . . Pretty smart at it, too, seems to me you said he was?"
"Yes, very capable indeed."
"I want to know. . . . Hum. . . . Sho!"
He muttered one or two more disjointed exclamations and then ceased to speak altogether, staring abstractedly at a crack in the floor. All at once he began to hum a hymn. Mrs. Armstrong, whose nerves were close to the breaking point, lost patience.
"Good morning, Mr. Winslow," she said, and opened the door to the outer shop. This time Jed did not detain her. Instead he stared dreamily at the floor, apparently quite unconscious of her or his surroundings.
"Eh?" he drawled. "Oh, yes, good mornin',—good mornin'. . . . Hum. . . .
'There is a fountain filled with blood
Drawn from Emmanuel's veins,
And sinners plunged de de de de
De de di dew dum de.'"
His visitor closed the door. Jed still sat there gazing at vacancy and droning, dolefully.