"I dunno. Mebbe. Your boy Jack seen a trout into Spring Pond."
Ledlie, who was a large, heavy, red-faced man with a noticeably small mouth, faded blue eyes, and grey chin whiskers, picked a budding sprig from a bush, nibbled it, and gravely seated himself on the edge of the horse-trough. He was wearing a cigar behind his ear which
he presently extracted, gazed at, then reconsidering the extravagance, replaced.
"'Boy?' inquired Ledlie, resting one soil-incrusted boot on his spade."
"Three gals, Pete—that's your record," he remarked, gazing reproachfully out across the salt meadows beyond the causeway. "They won't bring you in nothin'," he added, shutting his thin lips.
"I kind of like them," said Greensleeve with a sigh.
"They'll eat their heads off," retorted Ledlie; "then they'll git married an' go off some'rs. There ain't nothin' to gals nohow. You oughtn't to have went an' done it."