“Look at the landlord,” said the farmer in an undertone, with his hand to his mouth. “Do you know what folks say of him?”
Pasco asked with his eyes. He could not frame the words with his lips.
“They do say that he set fire to the old place, so as to get the insurance money for rebuilding in grand style.”
“A tramp did it—got into the cellar,” said Pasco in a whisper.
“Nobody never saw thickey tramp come, and sure and sartain nobody never saw him go. I don’t believe in the tramp. He did it himself.”
“You should not speak that unless sure of it,” said Pepperill, thrusting back his chair. “You have no evidence.”
“Oh, evidence! Folks talk, and form their opinion.”
“Talk first and form opinions after on the idle chatter—that’s about it.”
Pasco stood up. He was alarmed. He was afraid he had not fastened the box of his dog-cart. The flap might have fallen, and then the interior would be exposed to view; and what would the ostler, what would anyone think who happened to come into the stable-yard and saw what constituted the lading of his cart? His hand had shaken as he turned the key, after bringing out the halter; almost certainly in his nervousness he had imperfectly turned it. He could not rest. He went out into the yard and looked at his dog-cart. It was closed. He tried the key. The lock was fast.
“Put the cob in,” said he to the ostler, and he returned, much relieved, to the house.