“No call to—to mention the Revolution, you know.”
“Certainly not,” answered Yates, with a wink that took in the situation. “Shall we sample the jug before or after supper?”
“After, if it’s all the same to you;” adding, “out in the barn.”
Yates nodded, and followed his friend into the house.
The young men were shown into a bedroom of more than ordinary size, on the upper floor. Everything about the house was of the most dainty and scrupulous cleanliness, and an air of cheerful comfort pervaded the place. Mrs. Bartlett was evidently a housekeeper to be proud of. Two large pitchers of cool, soft water awaited them, and the wash, as had been predicted, was most refreshing.
“I say,” cried Yates, “it’s rather cheeky to accept a man’s hospitality after knocking him down.”
“It would be for most people, but I think you underestimate your cheek, as you call it.”
“Bravo, Stilly! You’re blossoming out. That’s repartee, that is. With the accent on the rap, too. Never you mind; I think old 1812 and I will get on all right after this. It doesn’t seem to bother him any, so I don’t see why it should worry me. Nice motherly old lady, isn’t she?”
“Who? 1812?”
“No; Mrs. 1812. I’m sorry I complimented you on your repartee. You’ll get conceited. Remember that what in the newspaper man is clever, in a grave professor is rank flippancy. Let’s go down.”