“Are you sure, Cap'n Bangs?” she faltered. “This can't be the Solomon Cobb I mean. He's well off and it don't seem as if he would be in an office like this—if 'tis an office,” she added. “It looks more like a henhouse to me. And there's no signs anywhere.”
The captain laughed. “Signs cost money,” he said. “It takes paint to make a sign, same as it does to keep a henhouse lookin' respectable. This is the only Sol Cobb in Trumet, fur's I ever heard, and he's well off, sartin. He ought to be; I never heard of him lettin' go of anything he got hold of. Maybe you think I'm talkin' pretty free about your relation, Mrs. Barnes,” he added, apologetically. “I hadn't ought to, I suppose, but I've had one or two little dealin's with Sol, one time or 'nother, and I—well, maybe I'm prejudiced. Excuse me, won't you? He may be altogether different with his own folks.”
Thankful was still staring at the dubious and forbidding front door.
“It doesn't seem as if it could be,” she said. “But if you say so of course 'tis.”
“Yes, ma'am, I guess 'tis. That's Sol Cobb's henhouse and the old rooster is in, judgin' by the signs. Those are his rubbers on the step. Wearin' rubbers winter or summer is a habit of his. Humph! I'm talkin' too much again. You're goin' in, I suppose, ma'am?”
Thankful threw aside the carriage robe and prepared to clamber from the wagon.
“I surely am,” she declared. “That's what I came way over here for.”
The captain sprang to the ground and helped her to alight.
“I'll be right across the road at the store there,” he said. “I'll be on the watch when you came out. I—I—”
He hesitated. Evidently there was something else he wished to say, but he found the saying difficult. Thankful noticed the hesitation.