He asked one of his own. "How's the
only original high and mighty patriot this afternoon?" he sneered.
The Winslow hand caressed the Winslow chin.
"If you mean me, Phin," drawled Jed, "I'm able to sit up and take
nourishment, thank you. I judge you must be kind of ailin',
though. Take a seat, won't you?"
"No, I won't. I've got other fish to fry, bigger fish than you, at
that"
"Um-hm. Well, they wouldn't have to be sperm whales to beat me,
Phin. Be kind of hard to fry 'em if they was too big, wouldn't
it?"
"They're goin' to fry, you hear me. Yes, and they're goin' to
sizzle. He, he, he!"
Mr. Winslow sadly shook his head. "You must be awful sick, Phin,"
he drawled. "That's the third or fourth time you've laughed since
you came in here."
His visitor stopped chuckling and scowled instead. Jed beamed
gratification.
"That's it," he said. "Now you look more natural. Feelin' a
little better . . . eh?"
The Babbitt chin beard bristled. Its wearer leaned forward.
"Shut up," he commanded. "I ain't takin' any of your sass this
afternoon, Shavin's, and I ain't cal'latin' to waste much time on
you, neither. You know where I'm bound now? Well, I'm bound up to
the Orham National Bank to call on my dear friend Sam Hunniwell.
He, he, he! I've got a little bit of news for him. He's in
trouble, they tell me, and I want to help him out.
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