“Didn't sneak off,” retorted Sam, indignantly, through his nose; “forgot them eggs I left to home.”
“Sam,” said Lem, with a wink at Moses Hatch, “you hitch up your hoss and fetch me over to Harwich to git that indictment. Might git a chance to see that lady.”
“Wal, now, I wish I could, Lem, but my hoss is stun lame.”
There was a roar of laughter, during which Sam tried to look unconcerned.
“Mebbe Rias'll take me over,” said Lem, soberly. “You hitch up, Rias?”
“He's gone,” said Joe Northcutt, “slid out the door when you was speakin' to Sam.”
“Hain't none of you folks got spunk enough to carry me over to see the jedge?” demanded Lem; “my horses ain't fit to travel to-night.” Another silence followed, and Lem laughed contemptuously but good-naturedly, and turned on his heel. “Guess I'll walk, then,” he said.
“You kin have my white hoss, Lem,” said Moses Hatch.
“All right,” said Lem; “I'll come round and hitch up soon's I git my supper.”
An hour later, when Cynthia and her father and Millicent Skinner—who condescended to assist in the work and cooking of Mr. Wetherell's household—were seated at supper in the little kitchen behind the store, the head and shoulders of the stage-driver were thrust in at the window, his face shining from its evening application of soap and water. He was making eyes at Cynthia.