Down to Badgertown Centre the old stage-coach swung along, the horses now at a “pretty pace,” as Mr. Tisbett called it, for he always made a good showing down the main street, till a sharp scream struck his ears.
“Hulloa there, what you about,” he called; “scaring the horses to death!” and he pulled them up shortly, and craned his neck at a woman running along the sidewalk, and shaking a small bandbox tied up with a cloth cover at him. “Stop—stop,” she gasped faintly.
“Ain’t I a-stoppin’?” said Mr. Tisbett, leaning both hands holding the old leather reins on his knees. “Gracious, ye don’t need to screech so, Mis’ Sprigg.”
“I was afraid,” panted the woman, coming up to the stage, “that—you—wouldn’t stop, Mr. Tisbett.” Her face was very red and the drops of perspiration rolled down either side.
“Well, I’m a-stoppin’ now,” said the stage-driver, while Joel and David peered around him to get as much as possible of the interview; “so if you’ll state what you want, I’ll be obleeged to ye, Mis’ Sprigg.”
“How much is’t to Cherryville?” asked Mrs. Sprigg, depositing her bandbox on the grass by the side of the road, and pulling out a big handkerchief to mop her hot face.
“Just what it always was; a quarter,” said Mr. Tisbett. “The price ain’t changed any since yest’day when you asked me, Mis’ Sprigg.”
“I didn’t know but what you’d take less when you’d had a chance to think over what good customers we’d been when we lived over to Cherryville,” said Mrs. Sprigg, scanning the stage-driver’s face with her beady eyes. “We alwus travelled with you, Mr. Tisbett,” she added wheedlingly.
“And how much did you travel?” said Mr. Tisbett, scornfully, shifting his quid of tobacco to the other cheek; “once in a dog’s age, ye come over to Badgertown.”
Mrs. Sprigg drew herself up to her greatest height, which wasn’t much, and her beady eyes snapped.