“Whose is it?”
“Tom Simpson’s. He lent it to me.”
“But where’s your own?”
“Burned.”
“Burned?” Mrs. Blackford’s voice was shrill.
“Yes. At the fire. I—er—well, I helped get a man out, and my suit was scorched. I had to borrow Tom’s to wear home. Couldn’t wear mine.”
Mrs. Blackford raised her hands in surprise, and pushed her spectacles to the top of her head in order better to look at Joe.
“Well, of all things!” she cried. “I never heard tell of such goings on! The very idea!”
“What’s the matter? What has happened?” asked the rather harsh voice of Deacon Blackford, as he came up the walk on his way home from the office of his feed and grain business. “Has that boy been doing something again?” he asked.
“Doing something! I should say he had!” cried Mrs. Blackford. “He’s got his good suit burned up at the fire!”