“It’s no use, Doctor; you won’t have a cow or a bell or an Academy, or anything else, before the end of this term, if you don’t manage somehow to accomplish something.”
There was no denying that the exigency was one that called for special exertion, but Effie Dryer had seen George Brayton prying around the Academy building very early that morning, and she would have given more than her stepmother seemed disposed to for a statement of his views concerning the heifer and the bell. It had already been ascertained that the peck measure was the doctor’s own, but no one had succeeded in identifying what remained of the green apples.
Meantime, on his way back from his errand of gratitude that morning, Puff Evans had been hailed by Pat Murphy from the door of the grist-mill.
“The top o’ the mornin’ to yez. It’s sorry I am to hear the bad news about yer boat.”
“Yis,” said Pat, “and the master towld me to offer yez the pick of his lumber yon, ave ye was minded to build another.”
“And what for?” asked Puff. “Isn’t the boat a good one?”
“Sure enough,” said Pat; “she’s only too good for a Rodney lawyer. I hope she’ll upset wid him the day he puts his foot in her.”
By this time Puff began to comprehend the state of his neighbor’s mind on the boat question, and he at once proceeded to an explanation which made the kind-hearted Irishman break out into all sorts of encomiums upon the “young jintleman from the city.”
“It’s all right,” said Puff.