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Updated: May 21, 2025
"Hiram," he said, "we've broke up a good many courtships for Reeves, you and me have, but, speakin' frankly, I'd have liked to see him get that Crymble woman. If she ain't blood kin to the general manager of Tophet, then I'm all off in pedigree, I don't blame Crymble for dyin' three times to make sure that she was a widder.
But she staggered when searching scrutiny confirmed the dreadful suspicion of that first glimpse through the geraniums. For precaution's sake Cap'n Sproul still held Mr. Crymble by the scrabbled cloth in the back of his coat, and that despairing individual dangled like a manikin. But he braced his thin legs stubbornly when the Cap'n tried to push him toward the porch.
The announcement was made that Batson Reeves had at last caught a new wife in the person of Widow Delora Crymble, wedding set for Tuesday week. Dependence Crymble, deceased husband of Delora, reappeared on earth. This latter event to be further elaborated.
On the contrary he asked, mildly, gazing on the scattered sheets of paper containing the selectman's efforts at town-report composition, "Do you write poetry, sir?" "Not by a by a " gasped the Cap'n, seeking ineffectually for some phrase to express his ineffable disgust. "I was in hopes you did," continued Mr. Crymble, "for I would like a little help in finishing my epitaph. I compose slowly.
You can have the school-house, and I'll do more'n that I'll pay for fixin' it over. And in the mean time you come up to my house and make me a good long visit." He shoved ingratiating hand into the hook of the other's bony elbow and led him away. "But I want my valise," pleaded Mr. Crymble. "You leave that coffin-plate and epitaph with her," said the Cap'n, firmly.
"Bet ye money to mushmelons," mumbled Hiram as they passed, "he's got a warrant from old Alcander and is on his way to arrest." "I know he is," affirmed the Cap'n. "Every time he sticks that old tin badge on the outside of his coat he's on the war-path. Whip up, Hiram!" From afar they spied the tall figure of Dependence Crymble passing wraithlike to and fro across the yard.
"How much money have you got?" he demanded. "Have you come back here strapped?" "I ain't got any money," admitted Mr. Crymble, "but I own a secret how to cure stutterin' in ten lessons, and with that school-house that " "You don't dock in any school-house nor you don't marine railway into our poorhouse, not to be a bill of expense whilst I'm first selectman," broke in Cap'n Sproul with decision.
"Who in thunderation are you, anyway?" demanded Cap'n Sproul, propping himself on the table and leaning forward belligerently. "My name is Dependence Crymble," replied the other, quietly. "My father was Hope-for-grace Crymble. Odd names, eh? But the Crymbles were never like other folks." Cap'n Sproul sat down hard in his chair and goggled at the thin man. "Say, look-here-you," he gasped at last.
When he had been lifted at last to the edge of the well he turned dull eyes of resentment on Mrs. Crymble. "I wish there'd been a hole clear through to the Sandwich Isle or any other heathen country," he said, sourly. "I'd have crawled there through lakes of fire and seas of blood." She lifted her voice to vituperate, but his last clinch with death seemed to have given Mr.
He buttoned his jacket and hurried into Hiram's team, which was at the door. And with Hiram as charioteer they made time toward the Crymble place. Just out of the village they swept past Constable Zeburee Nute, whose slower Dobbin respectfully took the side of the highway.
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