“Hello, Ben!” he said. “Well, what is it?”
Captain Ben, short-breathed always and pompous usually, was urbanely deferential.
“Just heard from Mooney,” he panted, with an asthmatic chuckle. “He was down to see me last night. Talked about nothing but that cranberry bill. I judge he has had a change of heart. Says he was up to see you a day or two ago. You must have put the fear of the Lord into him, Foster.”
Townsend smiled. “I didn’t mince matters much,” he admitted. “He’ll trot in harness now, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“He’d better. Going to the rally, I suppose?”
“Probably.”
“I hope you do. The sight of you will do more to keep him humble than anything else in the world.... Well,” turning to Esther, “so you are going to be your uncle’s girl from now on, I hear. That’s good, that’s first rate. My wife and I are coming up to call on you some of these evenings. And you must run in on us any time. Don’t stand on ceremony. We’ll always be glad to see you. Any of your Uncle Foster’s relations are just the same as ours, you know.”
This from Captain Ben Snow who, up to that moment, had scarcely so much as spoken to her. And he and the even more consequential Mrs. Snow were coming to call—not upon her uncle, but upon her. She managed to thank him, but that was all.
The only other individual who had the temerity to arrest the progress was Mr. Clark. Millard Fillmore was one of a small group of loungers who were supporting the wooden pillars in front of Kent’s General Store, by leaning against them. His sister had sent him to the store on an errand. He heard the proud “clop, clop” of the horses’ hoofs upon the road and awoke to life and energy.
“Hi!” he shouted, rushing out. “Well, well! Here you are, ain’t you! Good afternoon, Cap’n Foster; good afternoon, sir. Well, Esther, you look fine as a fiddle, settin’ up there as if you’d done it all your days. Pretty fine girl, ain’t she, Cap’n Foster? Eh? She’ll be a credit to you, you mark my words.”