"Not quite," was the agent's slow reply; "but here's the blamedest
funniest communicate a man ever got! It's from some critter that knows
the man what bought the Wegg farm."
"Let's hear it," remarked Cotting, the store-keeper, a fat individual
with a bald head, who was counting matches from a shelf into the public
match-box. He allowed "the boys" just twenty free matches a day.
So the agent read the letter in an uncertain halting voice, and when he
had finished it the little group stared at one another for a time in
thoughtful silence.
"Wall, I'll be plunked," finally exclaimed the blacksmith. "Looks like
the feller's rich, don't it?"
"Ef he's rich, what the tarnation blazes is he comin' here for?"
demanded Nib Corkins, the dandy of the town. "I was over t' Huntingdon
las' year, 'n' seen how the rich folks live. Boys, this h'ain't no place
for a man with money."
"That depends," responded Cotting, gravely. "I'm sure we'd all be better
off if we had a few real bloods here to squander their substance."
"Well, here's a perposal to squander, all right," said McNutt. "But the
question is, Does he know what he's runnin' up agin', and what it'll
cost to do all the idiotic things as he says?"
"Prob'ly not," answered the storekeeper.
"It's the best built farm house 'round thest parts," announced the
miller, who had been silent until now.
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