“ ‘Well, I never!’ says I.
“ ‘Tell ye what,’ says he. No, that’s all he said.”
“Pooh!” said the old woman, “it’s all wind, Joshy; it’s nothing but Zeb Shute’s nonsense.”
“Do you think so?” exclaimed Josh, with a stare of uncommon animation, and his mouth wide open.
“No doubt on’t, Joshy, my boy,” replied she, “for Peggy Downer was here yesterday forenoon, to borrow a cup of starch, and she never mentioned the leastest word about it under the light of the livin’ sun.”
“If I was only sure of that!” said Josh, laying down the toast-iron and sticking his knuckles into his right eye.
“Joshy, my boy,” said the old woman, “I don’t believe Hannah Downer ever gin Peet Spinbutton the leastest encouragement in the universal world.”
“Think so?” asked Josh, setting his elbows on his knees, his chin in his fists, and fixing his eyes vacantly downward in an angle of forty-five degrees, as if in intense admiration of the back-log.
“I’ll tell you what, Joshy,” said Mrs. Beanpole, in a motherly tone, “do you just put on your go-to-meetin’ suit, and go to see Hannah this blessed night.”
“Eh!” exclaimed Josh, starting from his elbows at the astounding boldness of the suggestion, and gazing straight up the chimney. “Do you think she’d let me?”