And the two walked away together.
"Seems to me, Mr. Simlins," said Squire Deacon, watching Faith and her convoy with a certain saturnine satisfaction; "I say it seems to me, that the Judge aint making the thing right side upwards. The boys get all the prizes—without Dr. Harrison thinks he has, and the teacher don't seem to be much count. Now what a handsomer thing it would have been to make the boys get him something with their own hard cash,—a pleasure boat—" added the Squire, "or a Bible—or anything of that sort. I thought all this philustration was to set him up."
Mr. Simlins gave a kind of grunt.
"It haint pulled him down much," he said,—"as I see. And I suppose Judge Harrison thinks that drivin' wedges under a church steeple is a surrogate work—without he saw it was topplin'."
Without getting any too clear a notion of the meaning of these words—it took a lively imagination to follow Mr. Simlins in some of his flights, the Squire yet perceived enough to stay his own words a little; and he passed away the tedium of the next few minutes by peering round the corner of the house and getting far-off glimpses of Faith.
"She looks 'most like a spectral illusion," he said admiringly. "The tablecloths aint bleached a bit whiter 'n her dress."
"She aint no more like a spectre than I'm like a ghost," said Mr.
Simlins. "Washin' and ironin' 'll make a white frock for any woman."
Then stalking up to Mr. Linden accosted him grimly, after his fashion. "Well Mr. Linden—what d' you think of that farm at Neanticut? don't you want to take it of me?"
"There are too many fences between me and it," was the smiling reply.
"It's good land," Mr. Simlins went on; "you can't do better than settle down there. I'd like to have you for a tenant—give you the land easy."