But J. D. Matthews was going in the opposite direction.
Before Grandma Padgett had completed her brief toilet next morning, and while the daylight was yet uncertain, the Dutch landlord knocked at the outer door for his fee. He seemed not at all surprised at finding the pedler lodging there, but told him to stop at the tavern and trade with the vrow.
“And a safe time the poor simple soul will have,” said Grandma Padgett, making her spectacles glitter at the landlord, “gettin' through the creek that nigh drowned us. I suppose, you have a ford that you don't keep for movers.”
“Oh, yah!” said the landlord. “Te fort ist goot.”
“How dared you send a woman and two children to such an empty, miserable shell as this?”
{Illustration: J. D. MATTHEWS RUNS AWAY.}
“I don't keep moofers to mine tafern,” said the landlord, putting his abundant charge into his pocket. “Chay-Te, he always stops here. He coes all ofer te countries, Chay-Te toes. His headt ist pat.”
“But his heart is good,” said the grandmother. “And that will count up more to his credit than if he was an extortioner, and ill-treated the stranger within his gate.”
“Oh, Chay-Te ist a goot feller!” said the Dutch landlord comfortably, untouched by any reflections on his own conduct.
Grandma Padgett could not feel placid in her mind until the weeds and hill hid him from sight.