He was a church-member: he could NOT be drunk? At the
sight of her, he tried to regain the austere dignity usual to him
when women were concerned, but lapsed into an occasional giggle,
which spoiled the effect.
"Where have you been," she inquired, severely, "scouring the
country like a heathen on this blessed day? And what is that you
have burning? You're disgracing the house, and strangers in it."
Joel's good-humour was proof against even this.
"I've scoured to some purpose, then. Dun't tell the mester:
it'll muddle his brains t'-night. Wait till mornin'. Squire
More'll be down his-self t' 'xplain."
He rubbed the greasy fingers into his hair, while Mrs. Howth's
eyes were fixed in dumb perplexity.
"Ye see,"--slowly, determined to make it clear to her now and
forever,--"it's water: no, t' a'n't water: it's troubled me an'
Mester Howth some time in Poke Run, atop o' 't. I hed my
suspicions,--so'd he; lay low, though, frum all women-folks. So
's I tuk a bottle down, unbeknown, to Squire More, an' it's
oil!"--jumping like a wild Indian,--"thank the Lord fur his
marcies, it's oil!"
"Well, Joel," she said, calmly, "very disagreeably smelling oil
it is, I must say."
"Good save the woman!" he broke out, sotto voce, "she's a born
natural! Did ye never hear of a shaft? or millions o' gallons a
day? It's better nor a California ranch, I tell ye. Mebbe,"
charitably, "ye didn't know Poke Run's the mester's?"
"I certainly do.
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