“Is that so? Well, go on.”
“Yes,—now you tell th’ rest, Ma.” The little shoemaker ambled back to his work, and picked up the parson’s shoe again.
“Well, that boy was stayin’ over to Hingham,” explained Mrs. Beebe, pointing with her fat finger.
“Hingham don’t lay in that direction,” said Mrs. Goodsell critically, “it’s over there,” and she waved her big hand to the opposite corner of the shop.
“Never mind,” said Mrs. Beebe easily, “I ain’t partic’lar about Hingham now. I’m tellin’ about th’ boy, he was stayin’ there with his father.”
“Who was his father?” Mrs. Goodsell was for getting all the particulars, if she got any.
“Oh, he was an awful big man. I guess he was born big,” and Mrs. Beebe shuddered. “I hain’t seen him but twice. An’ then Badgertown seemed so little when he was drivin’ by, I was afraid he couldn’t get through. But the boy—” here a smile ran up Mrs. Beebe’s round face—“you never’d know from him that he was rich.”
“Was he rich?” asked Mrs. Goodsell in an awed tone.
“Rich?” the little shoemaker’s wife brought it out almost in a scream, “why he could buy us all up, an’ you Four Corners folks, an’ everywhere’s around for miles and miles.”
“You don’t say!”