I started for the bank. But just then the trolley wire, which we had quite forgotten, began to buzz. We paused. Up the pike came the car. It stopped just short of the bridge, by a cross-road, and an old man alighted. Then it moved on, shaking more dust down upon the brown water. The old man regarded us a moment, and instead of turning up the cross-road, came over to us.
(“Know him?” I whispered.)
(“Is it Hen Flint, that used to drive the meat wagon with the white top?” said Old Hundred. “Lord, is it so many years ago!”)
“How are you, Mr. Flint?” said I.
“Thot I didn't mistake ye,” said the old man, putting out a large, thin, but powerful hand. “Whar be ye now, Noo York? Come back to look over the old place, eh? I reckon ye find it some changed. Don't know it myself, hardly. You look like yer ma; sorter got her peak face.”
“Where's the swimming hole now?” asked Old Hundred.
“I don't calc'late thar be any,” said the old man. “The gol durn trolley an' the automobiles spiled the pool here, an' the mill-pond's no good since they tore down the mill, an' bust the dam. Maybe the little fellers git their toes wet down back o' Bill Flint's; I see 'em splashin' round thar hot days. But the old fellers have to wash in the kitchen, same's in winter.”
“But the boys must swim somewhere,” said I.
“I presume likely they go to the beaches,” said Henry Flint. “I see 'em ridin' off in the trolley.”
“Yes,” said I, “it must be easy to get anywhere now, with the trolleys so thick.”