Meantime, the squire, after a question as to where the coffin could be temporarily placed, and a direction to the driver of the wagon, asked the publican: “We had word in Virginia that Greenwood was sold by the state; is ’t so?”
“Yes, squire, it wuz auctioned last August an’ wuz bought by ole squire Hennion, an’ jes naow his Excellency ’s usin’ it fer headquarters, till the army moves north’ard.”
A sadder look came on Mr. Meredith’s face. “That ’s worse news yet,” he grieved, with a shake of his head; “but perhaps he’ll not carry his hatred into this.” He walked over to where the all-attentive loungers were sitting, and going up to Hennion, said humbly: “We were once friends, Hennion, and I trust that such ill feeling as ye bear for me will not lead ye to refuse a request I have to make.”
“An’ what ’ere is thet?” inquired Hennion, suspiciously.
“’T was Matilda’s—’t was my wife’s dying prayer that we should bring her back here, and lay her beside her four babies, and to let her die happy I gave her my word it should be done. Ye’ll not refuse me leave, I’m sure, man, to bury her in the private plot at Greenwood.”
“Yer need n’t expect ter fool me by no sich a story. I ain’t goin’ ter let yer weaken my title by no sich a trick!”
“For shame!” cried Joseph, and a number of others echoed his words.
“Yelp away,” snarled Hennion, rising; “If’t ’t wuz yer bull ez wuz ter be gored yer ’d whine t’ other side of yer teeth.” With which remark he shuffled away.
Not stopping to listen to the expressions of sympathy and disgust that the idlers began upon, Mr. Meredith entered the public of the tavern.
“Here yer be, squire, jus’ mixed from my very bestest liquor, an’ it’ll set yer right up,” declared the landlord, offering him a pewter pot.