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To think of Gregory Wilkinson driving around the lower part of the State of Delaware in this secret sort of way, in company with Old Jacob and the churn-wash-boiler, as she very truly said, was like a horrible dream; and she asked me to pinch her to make sure that it wasn't. "But even pinching me don't prove anything," she said, when I had performed that office for her. "For don't you see?
By all odds the most curious of these details was that they had taken along with them a large tin vessel, Old Jacob's description of which tallied strangely closely with that of the churn-wash-boiler, and that they had left it behind them when they returned.
I had hired a light wagon and had driven him over in time for the early train, bringing Susan along, so that she might see the last of him. What with all three of us, his trunk and valise, and the churn-wash-boiler, we had a wagon-load. Susan was horrified at the thought of his giving the churn-wash-boiler to the asylum.
If you must give it to them, at least conceal from them I beg of you, conceal from them the fatal fact that it ever was meant to be a churn too." Gregory Wilkinson promised Susan that he would conceal this fact from the destitute red Indian children; and then the train started, and he and the churn-wash-boiler were whisked away. We really were very sorry to part with him.
Suddenly Susan exclaimed, in a tone of disgust and consternation: "It's it's that perfectly horrid churn-wash-boiler!" As she spoke these doomful words I recalled Old Jacob's drunken story, which I now perceived must have been true, and the dreadful thought flashed into my mind that Gregory Wilkinson must have gone crazy, and that this dreary practical joke was the first result of his madness.
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