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Updated: May 7, 2025
"I've knowed him ever sense we was boys," said Mr. Bixby; "you saw how intimate we was. When he wants a thing done, he says, 'Bije, you go out and get 'em. Never counts the cost. He was nice to you wahn't he, Will?" And then Mr. Bixby leaned over and whispered in Mr. Wetherell's ear; "He knows you understand he knows." "Knows what?" demanded Mr. Wetherell. Mr.
Surely no more dissimilar men than these have ever been friends, and that the friendship was sometimes misjudged was one of the clouds on William Wetherell's horizon. As the years went on he was still unable to pay off the mortgage; and sometimes, indeed, he could not even meet the interest, in spite of the princely sum he received from Mr. Willard of the Guardian.
Wetherell's hand impressively. His own was very moist. "Heard you was in town, Mr. Wetherell," he said heartily. "If Jethro calls you a particular friend, it means something, I guess. It means something to me, anyhow." "Will hain't a politician," said Jethro. "Er Alvy?" "Hello!" said Mr. Hopkins. "Er Will don't talk."
William Wetherell, who had perplexities of his own, had done his best to keep out of the discussions that had raged on his cracker boxes and barrels, for his head was a jumble of figures which would not come right. And now as he stood there in the freshness of the early summer morning, waiting for Lem Hallowell's stage, poor Wetherell's heart was very heavy.
Wetherell's book, and his exercises should be worked through conscientiously. The chapter on conjunctions is also of serious importance to women. By "composition," I mean merely the art of writing without transgressing the rules of grammar and kindred canons by which all writers agree to be bound. The higher matter of "style" will be treated in the next chapter.
"I'm going down on Thursday." "B-better come in and see me," said Jethro. "Very well," answered Mr. Worthington; "I'll be in at two o'clock on Thursday." And then, without another word to either of them, he swung on his heel and strode quickly out of the store. Jethro did not move. William Wetherell's hand was trembling so that he could not write, and he could not trust his voice to speak.
If so, he gave no sign, and took Wetherell's hand limply. "Will's kinder hipped on book-l'arnin'," Lemuel continued kindly. "Come here to keep store for his health. Guess you may have heerd, Jethro, that Will married Cynthy Ware. You call Cynthy to mind, don't ye?" Jethro Bass dropped Wetherell's hand, but answered nothing.
Two years before he would not have borne to be laughed at so good-naturedly. "How could you let him take your clock again?" said Clover, as soon as the door was shut. "He'll spoil it. And you think so much of it." "I thought he would feel mortified if I didn't let him try," replied Katy, quietly, "I don't believe he'll hurt it. Wetherell's man likes Dorry, and he'll show him what to do."
Wetherell's household were seated at supper in the little kitchen behind the store, the head and shoulders of the stage-driver were thrust in at the window, his face shining from its evening application of soap and water. He was making eyes at Cynthia. "Want to go to Harwich, Will?" he asked. William set his cup down quickly. "You hain't afeard, be you?" he continued.
The locket fell open in William Wetherell's hand, for the clasp had become worn with time, and there was a picture of little Cynthia within: of little Cynthia, not so little now, a photograph taken in Brampton the year before. Wetherell laid it beside the daguerreotype. "She looks like her," he said aloud; "but the child is more vigorous, more human less like a spirit.
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