“Hurt by ’em?” says I.
“Yes,” says he firmly. “That other preface of your’n hurt me as much as 7 cents in the eyes of the community. It was probable more’n that damage to me. I wouldn’t”—says he, with as bitter a look onto him as I ever see,—“have had it got out that I had the Night Mair, for a silver 3 cent piece.”
“Why,” says I mildly, “it wasn’t nothin’ ag’inst your character, Josiah.”
“Oh no!” says he in a sarcastic tone. “You would want it talked over in prefaces and round, wouldn’t you, that you had the Night Mair, and pranced round in your sleep?”
“I never mentioned the word prance,” says I mildly, but firmly, “never.”
“Oh wall,” says he, “it is all the same thing.”
“No it haint,” says I firmly. “No it haint.”
“Wall,” says he, “you know jest how stories grow by tellin’. And by the time it got to New York,—I dare persume to say before it got to that village,—the story run that I pranced round, and was wild as a henhawk. I have hated prefaces ever sense, and druther give half a cent than to have you write another one.”
“Don’t go beyond your means a tryin’ to bribe me,” says I, in a almost dry tone. Josiah is honest as a pulpit, but close, nearly tight. After a moment’s thought, I says,—“If you feel like that about it, Josiah, I wont have no preface in this book.”
“Wall,” says he, “it would take a load offen my mind if you wouldn’t.” And he added in cheerful and tender tones,—“Shan’t I start up the fire for you, Samantha, and hang onto the tea-kettle?”