“I hope so,” I answered, rather dubiously.
“I know you will. There's nothin' so tiresome as doin' nothin'. I know, because that's been my job for quite a spell. Seems sometimes as if I'd have a fit, I get so sick of loafin'.”
His idea of a “loaf” was rising at six and weeding his garden, superintending the labor on his cranberry swamps or about his barns and grounds, attending bank and Selectmen's meetings, and generally keeping busy until sunset.
“I tell Abbie, my housekeeper,” he continued, “that if 'twan't for my age I believe I'd go to sea again just to keep from fallin' apart with dry rot. I asked her if she'd noticed how my timbers creaked, and she said I didn't keep still long enough for her to notice anything. Ho! ho! Nothin' makes her more provoked than for me to mention gettin' old or goin' to sea. All the same, I envy you your youth, Ros. You've got your life afore you, and I'm glad to see that you're goin' to make somethin' of it. I always said you'd wake up if somebody give you a punch. Who punched you, Ros?”
My reply was non-committal.
“Better mind my own business, hadn't I,” he observed. “All right, I will. No offense meant, you understand. But, you see, I've never believed that work was the cuss of mankind, like some folks, and no matter how much money a young feller's got I think he's better off doin' somethin'. That's the gospel accordin' to Elisha. Well, good luck and a pleasant v'yage. See you again soon. Say,” turning back, “keep an eye on George, will you? Folks in love are l'ble to be absent-minded, they tell me, and I should not want him to be absent with any of my money. Hear that, do you, George?”
Taylor, who was standing near, laughed and walked away. A moment later I saw him looking out of the window with the same strange expression on his face which I had noticed several times before when his approaching marriage was hinted at. Something was troubling him, that was plain. He loved Nellie devotedly, I knew; yet he obviously did not like to hear the marriage mentioned.
Sim Eldredge was one of the first visitors to the bank, but his visit was a short one. He entered the door, walked straight to the teller's window and peered through the bars. I heard him catch his breath.
“Good morning, Sim,” said I. “What can I do for you?”
“Do?” he repeated. “Do for me? Nothin'—nothin', 'special. You—you meant it, then?”