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Updated: April 30, 2025
When Aunt Delia McCormick in my hearing said, "Well, now, what a world this is!" and Mrs. Westley Keyts answered, "That's very true!" I knew they referred to the Lansdale furniture. It was typical of the prevailing stupefaction. "It seems that a collector may be a gentleman," said Miss Caroline, "but Mr. Cohen wasn't even a collector!" Then I told her the considerable sum now to her credit.
Westley Keyts frankly said he had never been able to "get into" Shakspere, and considered it, as a book for reading purposes, inferior to "Cudjo's Cave," which he had read three times. The minister, whose church Miss Caroline now patronized, that term being chosen after some deliberation, held up both his hands at the news and mildly exclaimed, "Well!" Then, after a pause, "Well, well!"
Up about the Narrows would be a good place to say farewell," he concluded thoughtfully. We had listened patiently enough, but this was too summary. Westley Keyts is our butcher, a good, honest, energetic, downright business man with a square forehead and a blunt jaw and red hair that bristles with challenges.
Old Bolivar Kent, eighty-six and shuffling his short steps to the grave not far ahead, understood her with one look; the but adolescent Guy McCormick, hovering tragically on the verge of his first public shave, divined her quite as capably; the middle-yeared Westley Keyts read her so unerringly on a day when she first regaled his vision that he toiled for half an hour as one entranced, disengaging what he believed to be porter-house steaks long after the porter-house line in the beef under his hand had been passed.
The prospect was not exciting, but the simple faith of the villagers that outsiders must share their interest in local concerns has always seemed too touching a thing to wreck. Within the six minutes mentioned by Mr. Keyts the diurnal happening to which he attached such importance was observed.
He was gesticulating with some violence, and I could see his expressive face work as if he uttered words to himself. I thought it possible that he might be composing a piece for his newspaper. Instantly there came to my mind that rather coarse paraphrase of Westley Keyts "A hand of mush in a glove of the same!" I did not intrude upon my friend as he passed.
"Was that fair, Solon, to pit a sleuth as relentless as Billy against poor Potts?" "All's fair in love and war." "Is it really war?" "You ask Westley Keyts if he thinks it's love." I think I noticed for the first time then that the Potts affair was etching lines into Solon's face. "Of course it's war," he went on. "You know the fix I'm in. I had the plan to get Potts out. It was a good plan, too.
Naturally they were directed against Solon Denney. By that time Westley Keyts was greeting Solon morosely, though without open cavil; but Asa Bundy no longer hesitated to speak out. He quoted Scripture to Solon about the house that was swept and garnished, and the seven other wicked spirits that entered it, making its last state worse than its first.
During one of the reader's pauses to impress upon them the splendors of the Byronic imagery, and eke its human heart-warmth, good Aunt Delia, with defiant looks about the circle, broke in with: "I shouldn't wonder if Shakspere has been made too much over." Mrs. Keyts stepped loyally into the breach thus effected.
"It's in her," was an explanation which Westley Keyts thought all-sufficient, though he added by way, as it were, of putting this into raised letters for the blind, "she'd have to raise hell just the same if it had cost that there railroad eight million 'stead of eight hundred to exterminate Potts!" For myself, I should have set this thing to different words. I regarded Mrs.
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