“I said I was cal'latin' to. Told him I hated to get out of the high-society circles I'd been livin' in lately, but that everyone had their comedowns in this world.”
“Ho, ho! that was a good one. What answer did he make to that?”
“Well, he said the 'high society' would miss me. Then he finished up with a piece of advice. 'Berry,' says he, 'don't move onto that lot TOO quick. I wouldn't if I was you.' Then he went away, chucklin'.”
“Chucklin', hey? What made him so joyful?”
“Don't know”—Captain Sol's face clouded once more—“and I care less,” he added brusquely.
Simeon pondered. “Have you heard from Abner Payne, Sol?” he asked. “Has Ab answered that letter you wrote sayin' you'd swap your lot for the Main Street one?”
“No, he hasn't. I wrote him that day I told you to move me.”
“Hum! that's kind of funny. You don't s'pose—”
He stopped, noticing the expression on his friend's face. The depot master was looking out through the open door of the waiting room. On the opposite side of the road, just emerging from Mr. Higgins's “general store,” was Olive Edwards, the widow whose home was to be pulled down as soon as the “Colonial” reached its destination. She came out of the store and started up Main Street. Suddenly, and as if obeying an involuntary impulse, she turned her head. Her eyes met those of Captain Sol Berry, the depot master. For a brief instant their glance met, then Mrs. Edwards hurried on.
Sim Phinney sighed pityingly. “Looks kind of tired and worried, don't she?” he ventured. His friend did not speak.