"Howdy' do," he said, nodding to them both. "Miss Harriet, is yore ma
needin' any more eggs now? I diskivered another nest this mornin', an'
'lowed she mought be able to use 'em. She's about the only one in the
place 'at ever has cash to pay fer produce."
"I don't know, Mr. Wambush," Harriet replied, politely. "She is in the
house; you might go in and see her."
The old man shifted his basket to his other arm and hesitated.
Westerfelt got into the buggy and took up the reins.
"I reckon, Miss Harriet, you hain't heerd frum Toot sence I seed you?"
"No, Mr. Wambush." Westerfelt was not looking at her as she spoke, and
the saddest part of it lay in the fact that he was trying to save her
from what he imagined must be a very embarrassing situation. "No, he
has not written me."
"Well"--the old man turned--"as fur as I'm concerned, I'm not one bit
afeerd that he'll not be able to take keer o' hisse'f, but his mammy is
pestered mighty nigh to death about 'im."
Just then Mrs. Floyd came out on the porch and threw a kiss at Harriet.
The act and its accompanying smile reminded Westerfelt of the deception
the old lady had played on Bates, and that added weight to the vague
convictions once more alive in his brain.
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