“If the Middleton’s are a fair specimen¹ of the people of Plympton, it’s a good place to emigrate from,” he thought. “However, I’ll stay a while and see what turns up.”

 

Plympton was a village of moderate size. It probably contained about fifteen hundred inhabitants, beside the occupants of outlying farms, for the town was largely agricultural. Those who met our hero surveyed him with attention, for in a small country town all are acquainted, and a stranger is at once recognized as such. One old lady, Mrs. Prudence² Peabody, was not content with staring at our hero. She stopped short and addressed him.

 

“Do you live in Plympton, young man?”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” said Tom. “Do you?”

 

“I’ve lived here ever since I was a gal³.”

 

“Have you?” asked Tom innocently. “That must be a long time.”

 

“I ain’t so old as I might be,” said the old lady sharply. “Where do you live? I never see you afore.”

 

“It’s a remarkable⁴ coincidence that I never set eyes on you before.”

 

“Who be you a living with?”

 

“Mr. Middleton. Shall be happy to receive a call.”

 

The old lady looked sharply at our hero, but his manner was so cool and matter-of-fact that it was impossible to tell whether he intended to be polite or was merely chaffing her.

 

“What’s your name?” asked the old lady.

 

“Thomas Washington,” said our hero. “Sorry I haven’t a card.”

 

“You ain’t related to Gineral Washington, be you?”

 

“I’m his first cousin’s grandson,” answered Tom, who, at any rate, did not possess the traditional love of truth which we usually associate with the name which he had so unjustifiably assumed.

分享到：