“Slocum’s!” ejaculated Mrs. Lane, her hands trembling with excitement.
“Yes, dat vas his name. You take de pants, hein?”
For a moment Mrs. Lane was silent, examining the rent, for the trousers though bright and new were of the same brown and gray herring-bone pattern as the dingy rag she had brought from the cellar window of the burned house.
“Yes, I’ll take ’em. They could be cut to advantage, and you may leave me a box of that machine cotton, too; I’m clean out. Now, pack up and move on, my man; I’ve got to see to supper.”
“She vas very glad of dose pants,” thought the pedler to himself, as he trudged away, smiling at the sales he had made.
Up in the attic Mrs. Lane presently stood by a gigantic cedar chest, the lid of which she lifted with difficulty, next the top tray. In the one below she spread the pair of pants to the torn leg of which was pinned the rag.
“It does seem a shame to lay away a pair of ’Biram Slocum’s pants so near my weddin’ shawl, but so must it be. Well, now, there’s two stitches in the garter I’ve set up to knit for the hobbling of ’Bi Slocum’s pace; the third stitch will be to show why he crawled in that cellar window before the fire for he surely didn’t do it after, and why he was afeared to let his wife mend his torn pants.”