“O, yes, Cap’m; I have run down Hannah already.”
“My Hannah?”
“O, yes, Cap’m; we have agreed, and only want your consent.”
With this the old Cap’m ris right up on eend, upset the tub and frying-pan, and pointed with a great red ear of corn in his hand, towards the door, without saying a word; but his eyes rolled like all creation!
This raised my blood, that I felt so stuffy, that I marched right straight off, and never turned my head to the right or left, till I was fairly home and housed.
“Well now,” says I, “my apple-cart is upset in good earnest.” And when I went to Doctor Dingley for comfort, says he, “John, I wash my hands of this whole affair, from beginning to end. I must support my character. I am a settled doctor in this town; and the character of a doctor, John, is too delicate a flower to go poking round, and dabbling into everybody’s mess. Then,” says he, “Mrs. Dingley, I warn you not to meddle nor make in this business. Let everybody skin their own eels. Hold your tongue, you fool, you. Did you ever hear of me burning my fingers?”
Howsomever, there was some under-hand work carried on somewhere, and by somebody. I don’t tell tales out of school. I had no hand in it, till one day, Dr. Dingley, says he, “John, if you happen to be wanting my horse and shay, this afternoon, about three o’clock, go and take it. I never refused to lend, you know. And I hope Captain Peabody will gain his law-suit with Deacon Carpenter, that he has gone down to Portland to see to. But that’s none of my business.”
Somebody, too—I don’t say who—there was a certain Squire Darling, living in a certain town, about ten miles off, that did business, and asked no questions. Well, in the said town, just after sundown, a young man, named Joseph Morey, was walking near the meeten-house, with a sort of cream-coloured book under his arm; and he heard something in the woods, this side, that, if it wasn’t a hurricane, he’d give up guessing. Such a cracking, and squeaking, and rattling!—such a thrashing, and grunting, and snorting!—you never! He stopped, and looked back, and all soon came to light. There was an old white-faced horse came scrabbling along out of the woods, reeling and foaming, with an old wooded top shay at his tail, and a chap about my size flourishing a small beach-pole, pretty well boomed up at the end. And, says I, “Mister, can you tell me where one Squire Darling lives?”
“Which Squire Darling?” says he; “there’s two of the name.”
“His name is John,” says I.