Dave turned away in some impatience. Involuntarily his eyes sought out
Anna Moore to see if she, too, was adding her quota of admiration to
the stranger's account. But Anna had no eyes or ears for anything but
the business of the moment, which was attending to the Squire's guests.
Evidently one woman could retain her senses in the presence of this
tailor's figure. Dave's admiration of Anna went up several points.
She slipped about as quietly as a spirit, removing and replacing dishes
with exquisite deftness. Even the Squire was forced to acknowledge
that she was a great acquisition to the household. She neither sought
to avoid nor to attract the attention of Sanderson; she waited on him
attentively and unobtrusively as she would have waited on any other
guest at the Squire's table. The Squire and Sanderson retired to the
porch to discuss the purchase of the stock, and Mrs. Bartlett and Anna
set to work to clear away the dishes. Kate excused herself from
assisting, as she had to assume the position as hostess and soon had
the church choir singing in its very best style. Song after song rang
out on the clear summer air. It was a treat not likely to be forgotten
soon by the listeners. All the members of the choir had what is known
as "natural talent," joined to which there was a very fair amount of
cultivation, and the result was music of a most pleasing type, music
that touches the heart--not a mere display Of vocal gymnastics.
Toward the close of the festivities, the sound of wheels was heard, and
the cracked voice of Rube Whipple, the town constable, urging his
ancient nag to greater speed, issued out of the darkness. Rube was
what is known as a "character." He had held the office, which on
account of being associated with him had become a sort of municipal
joke, in the earliest recollections of the oldest inhabitants. He
apparently got no older. For the past fifty years he had looked as if
he had been ready to totter into the grave at any moment, but he took
it out apparently, in attending to other people's funerals instead.
His voice was cracked, he walked with a limp, and his clothes, Hi
Holler said: "was the old suit Noah left in the ark."
The choir had just finished singing "Rock of Ages" as the constable
turned his venerable piece of horseflesh into the front yard.
"Well, well," he said, in a voice like a graphophone badly in need of
repair, "I might have knowed it was the choir kicking up all that
rumpus. Heard the row clear up to the postoffice, and thought I'd come
up to see if anyone was getting murdered."