“Joe Dumple hed th’ee hundred a year an’ a fifty-acre farm,” the Patriarch cried, “but choosin’ between him an’ the painter, Bill Spiegelsole’s widdy tuk——”
“I’ve told ye afore that this here Deeverox was a portrate painter, an’ ye can’t settle this question be referrin’ to the Spiegelsoles any way. Ez I was sayin’, Reginal’ hed no money but he hed a brilliant mind. His face was like an open book, the paper sayd——”
“That’s rather pecul’ar.” It was the veteran who broke into the story this time. “There’s Jerry Sprout, who lives beyant Sloshers Mills, he hes a head jest the shape of a fam’ly Bible, but ye can shoot me ef I can see how a man could hev a face like an——”
“Open book,” the Loafer said. “Well, you hev no ’magination. But ef ye don’t believe what I’m tellin’, you can go git the paper an’ read it yourself.”
“Come, come; no argyin’.” The Patriarch was in his soothing mood. “What become o’ Lord?”
“Lord hated Reginal’ with a bitter hatred, the paper sayd, because of the death of M-e-p-h-i-s-t-o, an’ now, ez Alice Fairfax begin to look not onkindly on the handsome stranger, his cup was more embittered an’ he wowed revenge. Things kept gittin’ hotter an’ hotter ’round the castel. Ole man Fairfax was tickled to death with Reginal’ an’ ’sisted on him stayin’ all summer. Lord come over regular every day, spyin’ ’round an’ settin’ up with Alice ’hen he’d git a chancet. Time an’ agin, the paper sayd, he asted her to be his own, but she spurned him. The last time he asted her was at a huntin’ party they hed at the castel. Everybody in the county was there—Lord Mussex, Duke Dumford, Earl Minnows, Lady Montezgewy an’ a lot of others—all over to hunt.”
“Hunt what?” asked the Miller.
“Well, I s’pose they would be likely to drive five or six mile over to Fairfax’s to hunt eggs—wouldn’t they?” roared the Loafer. “Hunt what? Mighty souls! What would they hunt? Foxes, of course. The whole party started off after the hounds, Alice Fairfax an’ Lord Desmon leadin’ with——”
“Hol’ on!” cried the Patriarch. “Did you say weemen an’ all, a-huntin’ foxes? That Englan’ must be a strange placet. Why, it ain’t safe to trust a woman with a gun. Oh, what a pictur! S’pose we was to go huntin’ that ’ay with our weemen.” The old man leaned back and shook. “Pictur it! Jest pictur it! Why, they ’ud be blowed afore they got to the top o’ the first ridge.”