Byron understood, and smilingly replied that he would “make it all right” for his uncle.
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JACK—no longer the bright and cheerful lad whom we so lately saw picking up stones in the hilly pasture—went home, brooding darkly over his wrongs, and refused to be comforted by anything the good deacon and his wife could say to him.
“He robbed me, and hung up my dog by the heels,—got the Huswick tribe to help him; and here I am, alone against all of ’em, and nobody lifts a hand or says a word to help _me_!” was his bitter complaint, as he took the milk-pails after supper, and went out of the kitchen, shutting the door after him (I am sorry to say) with something like a bang.
“I’m a little disappointed in Jack,” observed the deacon, sadly.
“O, well, I don’t know,” replied his wife,—“you needn’t be; almost any boy of as much will and spirit as he has would feel so. He has been shamefully wronged,—you’ll allow that.”
“Blames everybody!” struck in Mr. Pipkin, on the point of going out, but standing and holding the door open. “I don’t s’pose anything under heavens would satisfy him, Mis’ Chatford, but for me and the deacon to march over to Peternot’s, give the old reprobate a good cudgellin’, which I don’t deny but what he desarves fast enough, and lug hum the money.”
“I wish the money had been at the bottom of the sea before ever Jack stumbled upon it!” said Mr. Chatford. “I shall certainly go over and see the squire in the morning, and be plain with him,—for I do think he has acted a most dishonorable part in the matter.”
“A sight of good your backing up will do!” remarked Mrs. Pipkin, sarcastically. “It won’t restore Jack’s money. I don’t wonder he’s sulky,—we all set down, so quiet, talking over his loss, instead of walking straight over to the squire’s, and doing something, as I believe I should if I was a man.”
“Wish ye was one, for a little spell,” said Mr. Pipkin, showing all his front teeth. “Guess you’d make old Peternot’s fur fly! Guess he’d wish—”
“Mr. Pipkin!” interrupted Mrs. Pipkin, in a warning voice, “you’ll oblige me very much by shutting that door, with yourself on the outside!”
Mr. Pipkin still showed a considerable amount of ivory, as he turned, and said aside to the deacon, with a wink: “These ’ere women!—have to indulge ’em. No use of answerin’ back, as old Dr. Larkin, minister o’ the gospil,—six foot high, eighty year old, wore a wig, best man in the world,—said once, as he was goin’ into a house where there was a parrot, and the parrot sung out, ‘That’s an old fool!’—‘No use of answerin’ back!’ says the good old doctor,—‘hi, hi!—I often think on ’t.’”