“Oh, yes, that’s so,” said Mr. Small, “if a man lives to be a centurion.”
“Well, you all knew our good friend,” said Mr. Holt. “If any of you will suggest anything, I shall be very glad to put it in.”
Nobody spoke for a moment.
“There’s one interesting thing,” said one of the sons, a little old man much like his father; “that is, that none of his children have ever gone meandering off. We’ve all remained”—he might almost have said remained seated—“all our lives right about him.”
“I will allude to that,” said Mr. Holt. “I hope you have something else, for I am afraid of running short of material: you see, I am a stranger here.”
“Why, I hope there won’t be any trouble about it,” said Maria, in sudden consternation. “I was a little afraid to give it out to so young a man as you, and I thought some of giving the preference to Father Cobb; but I didn’t quite like to have it go out of the village, nor to deprive you of the opportunity, and they all assured me that you was smart. But if you’re feeling nervous, perhaps we’d better have him still; he’s always ready.”
“Just as you like,” said Holt, modestly; “if he would be willing to preach the sermon, we might leave it that way, and I will add a few remarks.”
But Maria’s zeal for Father Cobb was a flash in the pan. He was a sickly farmer, a licensed preacher, who, when he was called upon occasionally to meet a sudden exigency, usually preached on the beheading of John the Baptist.
“I guess you’ve got things enough to write,” said Maria, consolingly; “you know how awfully a thing does drag out when you come to write it down on paper. Remember to tell how we’ve all stayed right here.”
WHEN Holt went out, he saw Mr. Small beckoning him to come to where his green wagon stood under a tree.