I watched him closely as he wiped his brow--he was
very warm, indeed. A third time the scene was enacted; my
curiosity was aroused; I made Mary call me very early, and from
the window I espied Smugg leaving the house at 9.15, and going
with rapid, furtive steps along the little path that led to old
Dill's tiny farm. I slipped downstairs, bolted a cup of tea,
seized a piece of toast, and followed Smugg. He was out of
sight, but presently I met Joe Shanks, the butcher's son, who
brought us our chops. Joe was a stout young man, about
twenty-one, red-faced, burly, and greasy. We used to have many
jokes with Joe; even Smugg had before now broken a mild shaft of
classical wit on him; in fact, we made a butt of Joe, and his
good-humored, muttony smile told us that he thought it a
compliment.
"Seen Mr. Smugg as you came along, Joe?" I asked.
"Yes, sir. Gone toward Dill's farm, sir."
"Ah, Dill's farm!"
"Yes, sir."
The chop-laden Joe passed on. I mended my pace, and soon found
myself on the outskirts of Dill's premises. I had been there
before; we had all been there before. Dill had a daughter. I
saw her now in a sunbonnet and laced boots. I may say at once
that Betsy Dill was very pretty, in a fine, robust style, and all
four of us were decidedly enamored of her charms. Usually we
courted her in a body, and scrupulous fairness was observed in
the matter of seeking private interviews.
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