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Updated: May 31, 2025
"But listen!" I cried suddenly. She ceased at once, and stood with her face half turned to the darkness behind her, her arms rigid at her sides, the gems dropping as her hand slowly unclasped them. Below, where the tunnel ran down into darkness, a voice hailed "'Metta! Is that 'Metta?" It was the voice of Dr. Beauregard. The poor creature gazed at me helplessly and ran for the stairway.
I tell the poor old zany he sounds simple-minded himself and I can't make a lick of sense out of what he's said, except I know this village ain't spelled that way. He's telling me that's the way it's spoken anyway, and about how he brought home a glass watch chain that these Bohemians blowed at the fair, when along come Metta Bigler herself and stops to shake hands, so Cousin Egbert slinks off.
I recognized it from the bottle. It was elderberry wine that Metta's mother had put up. You have to be resourceful in a dry state. "I'm afraid you'll all think me frightfully Bohemian," said Metta proudly. Beryl Mae held her glass up to the light and said, "After all, does anything in life really matter?" She appeared very blase in all her desperate young beauty.
A gang of ladies was taking claret lemonades and saying how delightfully Bohemian it all was; and Miss Metta Bigler, that gives lessons in oil painting and burnt wood, said it brought back very forcibly to her the Latin Quarter of Chicago, where she finished her art course.
The reins in his left hand, he swept off his ideal hat with a careless gesture he wished he had had an art study made of this, but you can't think of everything at one time. He turned loftily to Metta as one who had not even heard her tasteless taunts. "Well, so long! I won't be out late." Metta was now convinced that she had in her heart done this hero a wrong.
And Baird had spoken of the Montague girl as his leading lady quite as if he were a star. And seventy-five dollars a week! A sum Gashwiler had made him work five weeks for. Now he had something big to write to his old friend, Tessie Kearns. She might spread the news in Simsbury, he thought. He contrived a close-up of Gashwiler hearing it, of Mrs. Gashwiler hearing it, of Metta Judson hearing it.
"Giddap, there, you old Dexter Gashwiler!" ordered Metta, and was not rebuked. But neither would Dexter yield to a woman's whim. "I'll tell you!" said Merton, now contemptuous of his mount. "Get the buggy whip and tickle his ribs." Metta sped on his errand, her eyes shining with the lust for torture.
It shows you what a hold Vernabelle was by way of getting on Red Gap. It was sure one season of triumph for Metta Bigler, who lurked proudly in the background as manager. Metta's mother wasn't near so thrilled as Metta, though.
Metta Judson, from the back porch, here came into the piece with lines that the author had assuredly not written for her. "Giddap, there, you Dexter Gashwiler," called Metta loudly and with the best intentions. "You keep still," commanded the rider severely, not turning his head. What a long way it seemed to the ground! He had never dreamed that horses were so lofty.
With the frayed end of the whip from the delivery wagon she lightly scored the exposed ribs of Dexter, tormenting him with devilish cunning. Dexter's hide shuttled back and forth. He whinnied protestingly, but did not stir even one hoof. "That's the idea," said Merton, feeling scornfully secure on the back of this spiritless animal. "Keep it up! I can feel him coming to life." Metta kept it up.
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