Sidney watched the girls enter the house and followed them involuntarily. As he passed the bully who had been knocked down, he saw there was a lump like an egg already adorning his jaw.
“Serves him right!” said gentle Sidney Martin to himself.
A little farther on half-a-dozen men stood talking together; one, whom Sidney took to be the auctioneer, was saying meaningly:—
“It’s a bad business bidding for what you don’t want.”
“Yes,” said one of the group, laboriously keeping up the joke. “Yes—for it’s apt to be knocked down to you, and then you’ve got it on your hands.”
“On your jaw, you mean,” said the auctioneer smartly; whereat a laugh went up. Clearly Lanty Lansing had partizans here.
As Sidney reached the doorway within which the girls had vanished, a grey-haired man stepped forth from it.
“I am Sidney Martin,” he continued, but got no further with his self-introduction.
“I’m right glad to see you,” said old Lansing heartily, “right glad to see you! So you’re old Sid’s son? Well, you don’t favour him no more than my girl favours me! I was struck all of a heap when Dr. Clement told me he knew old Sid’s son in Bosting; says I, ‘If that younker is like his father I should say he’d have a liking for the fields, even if he is Bosting born and bred.’ But there! How did you come? Is your things at the station? How long is it since old Sid died? A nice old boy was Sid! And he had a talent for finding wood-chucks that beat the dickens.”
“I lost my father four years ago,” said Sidney—“he often spoke of you.”
“I’ll warrant he did,” said old Lansing, “and my girls know old Sid as well as their next door neighbour. Sid weren’t one of the sort to go back on old times—girls”—raising his voice—“girls!”
“This is Mr. Martin,” said the old man; “Old Sid Martin’s son.”
The girls gave him characteristic salutations. Vashti’s inclination was stately, with all the plastic grace of her beautiful form expressed in it. Mabella, to whose cheeks the soft rose had returned, bestowed upon him the tantalizing salutation of the born coquette, piquant, confident, but withal reserved.
“My daughter Vashti,” continued Mr. Lansing. “My niece Mabella”—and then—“Where’s Lanty?”
“He has gone home,” said Vashti; her voice was soft and full; a rarity in that region, and a heritage from the Lansings of old.