“Any races?” inquired the farmer from the upper hill road. “‘Cause I’ve got a colt, Black Hawk blood, ’t c’n run like a streak o’ greased lightnin’.”
“Races? Well, natu’ally. The’ll be races every day after the fust, an’ on Sat’day, the closin’ day, the stakes ’ll be a hunderd dollars fer two-year-olds, an’ up fer hosses o’ all ages. I wouldn’t miss it fer more’n I gen’ally carry in loose change. The’ll be some tall bettin’, I persoom.”
“They say that young Whitcomb feller’s quite a sport when ’t comes t’ puttin’ money on any ol’ thing,” drawled young Hewett, who had laid aside his official gravity as he emerged from behind the post-office.
“I guess I’ll be goin’ ’long,” he said, and cast a defiant look around the circle. “Ef I was you,” he said, “I’d keep my mouth shet ’bout things I didn’t know anythin’ ’bout.”
No one answered; but there was a general laugh as his heavy boots were heard to strike the sidewalk.
“Poor old Peleg!” said one. “Them Prestons has kep’ him pretty busy cookin’ up excuses. An’ ef she marries Whitcomb I guess Peleg ’ll be up against it a while longer.”
“‘Twon’t be any time b’fore Jarvis gits another mortgage; mebbe he’ll fetch it this time. ’Tain’t often the ’onor’ble gent gits left. I hed t’ laugh when I heerd she’d paid him off.”
“The’s somethin’ mighty queer ’bout that business, anyhow. Who d’ye suppose anted up with the money?”
“Some fool, like ’s not. A fool an’ his money’s soon parted. Now like’s not it was Dave Whitcomb. Mebbe he——”
“Get out, man! What’d be the use o’ that, if he’s goin’ t’ marry her?”
“He wa’n’t engaged to her when he fust come back; mebbe he thought——”
“Thought nothin’! Dave wouldn’t pass over no four thousand dollars b’fore he knew she’d have him, would he? He’d be a bigger fool ’n he looks to do that.”
“Say, Hank,” drawled young Hewett, “which ’d you druther be, a bigger fool ’n you look? or look a bigger fool ’n you be?”
“I dunno,” said Hank, thoughtfully expectorating in the general direction of the rusty stove. “Guess on the hull, I’d ruther look a bigger fool ’n I be, b’cause——”
“That’s impossible!” quoth the genial Al, with a snigger of amusement.
“Pooh! that’s a dried-up chestnut, Hank,” interposed the liveryman, “f’om five years b’fore last; don’t you let Al get a rise out o’ you that easy. He’d ’a’ said the same thing whichever way you’d answered.”