“Git up, you blankety blank blank,” repeated Ves Young, with cheerful enthusiasm. Mr. Mullen, from the top of the load of lumber, caroled dreamily on:
“'Here's to the good old rum,
Drink 'er daown!
Here's to the good old rum,
Drink 'er daown!
Here's to the good old rum,
Ain't you glad that you've got some?
Drink 'er daown! Drink 'er daown!
Drink 'er daown!'”
And floating, as it were, upon the waves of melody came the odor of the Young wagon, an odor combining deceased fish and late lamented cow and goodness knows what beside.
The dissipated vehicle stopped beneath the parlor windows of the Calvin cottage. Mr. Young called to his assistant.
“Here we be, Simp!” he yelled. “A-a-ll ashore that's goin' ashore! Wake up there, you unmentionably described old rum barrel and help unload this everlastingly condemned lumber.”
Mr. Calvin rushed to the window. “What does this mean?” he demanded, in frothing indignation.
Vessie waved at him reassuringly. “'Sall right, Mr. Calvin,” he shouted. “Here's your lumber from Ze-lotes Snow and Co., South Harniss, Mass., U. S. A. 'Sall right. Let 'er go, Simp! Let 'er blankety-blank go!”
Mr. Mullen responded with alacrity and a whoop. A half dozen boards crashed to the ground beneath the parlor windows. Mrs. Calvin rushed to her husband's side.
“This is DREADFUL, Seabury!” she cried. “Send those creatures and—and that horrible wagon away at once.”
The Reverend Calvin tried to obey orders. He commanded Mr. Young to go away from there that very moment. Vessie was surprised.