“Priscilla Kent in church’ll make folks rubber sure enough,” said Spotty, who had seated himself comfortably on the easy chair. “But say, I bet I know why she’s goin’. They’ve got a new minister, a young feller that ain’t married, and every single girl and widder and old maid in town is jest flockin’ to hear him. They say he’s perfectly lovely. Hee! hee! I guess your aunt is gittin’ the fever.”
Rod smiled. “Perhaps you’re right,” he admitted; “but really, I doubt if she’s even heard there has been a change of ministers, for you know she is something of a recluse, and doesn’t gossip with the neighbors. You’ll excuse me if I keep on with the adornment of my person.”
“Oh, go ahead,” nodded Davis, producing a pack of cigarettes. “I’ll have a coffin nail and be sociable while you’re toggin’ out. Say, that stew was rippin’ good, wasn’t it?”
“First rate,” agreed Rod, searching for a suitable necktie in a drawer. “I allow I enjoyed it, all right.”
“What do you think of Bunk’s old hang-out?”
“It’s a right comfortable place.”
“It’s great. We ought to have some fun over there this winter. We three make a pretty good crowd. Of course it would be better if we had another feller, but the right kind can’t be found around here. You didn’t seem to feel much like playing cards yesterday.”
“Not for money, and that was what Bunk proposed.”
“And I was busted,” chuckled the visitor, “so there wasn’t anything doin’. Bunk’s pretty slick with the pasteboards. You’ve got to keep your eye peeled for him. All the same, he needn’t think he knows it all; there is others.”
“Playing cards for money is bad business,” was Grant’s opinion. “I’ve seen trouble come of it. I’m willing enough to play for sport.”