“No.”
“His wife won’t never buy no sausages except what I bring. Well, mine are pretty good, if I do say it. I get old Marm Brown to make ‘em, and she’d orter know how, for she’s been in the business for forty years. Do you like sausages?”
“I don’t know,” said Margaret, who had not heard a word that was said.
“Don’t know,” repeated the driver, staring at her in surprise.
“Excuse me; I didn’t hear what you said.”
“I asked if you liked sausages. Some folks have a prejudice agin ‘em.”
“Yes, pretty well.”
“I like to have company,” continued the driver; “like to have somebody to talk to. Talkin’s natural to the family. My mother had a pretty long tongue, and used to use it most all the time, so that none of the rest of us could get in a word edgeways.”
Apparently, the mother’s gift had descended to the son, for he kept up a constant stream of talk, which was fortunate for Margaret, for he expected little in the way of response, and so was less likely to notice her abstraction.
“Last week I brought my oldest boy, Hamlet, with me. Queer name, isn’t?”