“There, sir,” demanded Mrs. Dryer, pointing to the wreck of the van, “did you ever see that before?”
“That?” responded Zeb. “Everybody knows what that is, I hope.”
“What is it, then?” exclaimed the Doctor, incautiously, and Zeb’s face was all aghast with amazement at such a display of ignorance in such a man, as he respectfully replied:
“That, Dr. Dryer, is a philosophical apparatus for measuring the strength of the wind.”
“Zebedee!” exclaimed Mrs. Dryer.
“Strength of the wind?” said her husband.
“Yes, Doctor,” continued Zeb; “the harder the wind should blow the louder the bell would toll. I have no doubt of it. Still, I should prefer to have Mr. Brayton explain it to you, as my own information is limited.”
“Brayton?” cried the triumphant lady. “I told you so. Don’t you remember? He was up there every time. Of course it was Brayton. He and that Vernon boy knew all about it. No wonder they ran away together. I told you so! Come, Dr. Dryer, we had better go home.”
“Hot water for George when he gets back, I’m afraid, if not for Barnaby,” muttered Zeb; “but the bell don’t seem to feel as bad as it did. Come on, Val.”
The two were walking rapidly away across the green when they were again halted by a softer voice than that of Mrs. Dryer.