So Millard, although he boasted much, at the store and about town, of his intimacy with the great man, dared not presume upon it. Therefore Foster Townsend was surprised to be accosted by him outside the post office one afternoon and to learn that Mr. Clark had something important to tell him.
“Well, what is it?” he asked, impatiently. “Heave ahead with it. I’m in a hurry.”
Millard looked cautiously over his shoulder.
“Don’t speak so loud, Cap’n Foster,” he whispered. “Reliance is inside there and she’s got the door open. I haven’t told her what ’tis. I haven’t told anybody.”
“All right. Then I wouldn’t bother to tell me. Keep it to yourself.”
“No, I ain’t goin’ to keep it to myself. It’s somethin’ you ought to know and—and bein’ as I’m one of the family, as you might say, I think it’s my—er—well, duty, to tell you. It’s about Esther.”
Townsend jerked his sleeve from the Clark grasp. He frowned.
“Esther?” he repeated, sharply. “What business have you got with Esther’s affairs?”
“Why—why, I don’t know’s I’ve got any, maybe—except that she’s one of my relations and I think a sight of her.... Now, hold on! Listen, Cap’n Foster! She’s seein’ that Griffin feller, old Cook’s grandson, from Denboro, about every day or so. He’s got that fish shanty of Tobe Eldridge’s—hires it to paint his fool pictures in, so Tobe says—and he’s been paintin’ a picture of Esther and she goes there about every afternoon. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t—”
Foster Townsend interrupted. “Here!” he ordered. “Wait! Come over here!”