“My instrument-case is too heavy. You’ll have to give me a lift to your house.”
“With pleasure,” she said. “But Blackwater Hall is still farther from Chipstone.”
“Anyhow I can get a trap from the village,” he said firmly.
“No, you can’t, and even if you walk to Long Bradmarsh it’s a toss-up if you’ll get anything at ‘The King of Prussia.’”
“Well, take me as far as the bridge—I’ll pay extra.”
“I can’t guarantee Methusalem will go back.”
“That’s all right,” he said cheerfully. “Horses know I stand no nonsense. And now, Uncle, as soon as I’ve lit my pipe, I’ll be ready for the pig. Got a match?”
To his disgust, Caleb produced a lucifer and a phial of sulphuric acid for dipping it in. The now well-established friction matches—that boon to the idle and extravagant—had not yet reached Frog Farm, where even flint and steel had been dispossessed but slowly. But the relit pipe was comforting.
“Wait a moment, Mr. Flynt,” said Jinny, tendering a packet as he started convoying the vet. “Your neckerchief!”
“Neckerchief!” cried Martha. “And what about my new bonnet?”
“’Twas only to be cleaned,” Caleb reminded her. “And by the same token, mother, don’t forget we settled the wet was to read the letter.”
“Ah, yes—I’ll get it.” And Martha hurried within.
“You see, Jinny,” Caleb explained, “the missus got a letter from Cousin Caroline, and we thought the gentleman here could make one job of it with the pig.”
“No more is Mr. Skindle.” Elijah flushed furiously.
“Noa—but ef it’s too—too womanish, Oi’ll arx him kindly to break it to me, sow Oi can break it to the missus when he’s gone.”
“Is this the letter?” asked Jinny, as Martha reappeared with it.
“That’s her—came all of an onplunge,” he repeated.
“But that’s not from your Cousin Caroline!” said Jinny, with a thrill of excitement as she took it.
“Noa?” gasped Caleb, as if the world was tumbling about his ears. Then he smiled. “You’re making game—you ain’t opened her yet.”
“But who else is it from?” cried Martha, catching her excitement.
“Will!” Martha gave a great cry, and clutched at the letter. “My baby Will!”
Caleb scratched his head. “Now which would be Will?”
“Will was the freckled, good-looking one,” said Jinny.
“Oh, Jinny,” said Martha. “They were all good-looking—took after Flynt. Dear heart, you can’t ha’ forgotten our tot after all that flurry. ’Tis only seven or eight years since he——”