“Well, ’twasn’t anything.”
“Tom Whitely! You almost rolled over on the railroad track and Mrs. Trivett nearly had a heart spell.”
“Oh, Mrs. Trivett!”
“But she talks more than half of the town.”
“Who listens to her?”
“Folks can’t help it. She’s so—pesky.” Gloria dropped a spray of golden rod.
“My mother never bothers with her.”
“But you know, Tom, others listen to her, and then—then. Just suppose someone tells your mother you rolled down that hill when the Flyer was whistling—”
“Say, Glo. Who’s been stringing you?”
“Tom Whitely, that’s no way to talk.” Gloria’s nose seemed to sniff her hat brim, and her black eyes flashed at the willows they were passing.