"Oh, all right, Cynthy," he whispered to her, and chuckled aloud at her
angry toss of the head.
"Schofields' seemed to be kind of put out with me this evening," he
remarked, addressing himself to the company. "He's the most ungratefullest
cuss I ever come up with. I was only oratin' on how proud the city ought
to be of him. He fairly keeps Plattville's sportin' spirit on the gog;
'die out, wasn't for him. There's be'n more money laid on him whether
he'll strike over and above the hour, or under and below, or whether he'll
strike fifteen minutes before time, or twenty after, than--well, sir, we'd
all forgit the language if it wasn't for Schofields' bell to keep us
talkin'; that's _my_ claim. Dull days, think of the talk he furnishes all
over town. Think what he's done to promote conversation. Now, for
instance, Anna Belle Bardlock's got a beau, they say"--here old Tom tilted
back in his chair and turned an innocent eye upon a youth across the
table, young William Todd, who was blushing over his griddle-cakes--"and I
hear he's a good deal scared of Anna Belle and not just what you might
call brash with her. They say every Sunday night he'll go up to Bardlocks'
and call on Anna Belle from half-past six till nine, and when he's got
into his chair he sets and looks at the floor and the crayon portraits
till about seven; then he opens his tremblin' lips and says, 'Reckon
Schofields' must be on his way to the court-house by this time.
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