It had seen its best days, Jerry thought, and so had he, for that matter.
Yet he had been called "a likely feller" when he married the Widder Bixby,
or rather when she married him. Well, the mischief was done;
all that remained was to save a remnant of his self-respect,
and make an occasional dash for liberty.
He did all his errands with his usual care, dropping a blue
ribbon for Doxy Morton's Sunday hat, four cents' worth of
gum-camphor for Almira Berry, a spool of cotton for Mrs. Wentworth,
and a pair of "galluses" for Living Bean. He finally turned into
the "back-nippin'" road from Bonny Eagle to Limington, and when he was
within forty rods of his own house he stopped to water his horses.
If he feared a scene he had good reason, for as the horses climbed
the crest of the long hill the lady in green was by his side on the box.
He looked anxiously ahead, and there, in a hedge of young alder bushes,
he saw something stirring, and, unless he was greatly mistaken,
a birch broom lay on the ground near the hedge.
Notwithstanding these danger signals, Jerry's arm encircled
the plump waist of the lady in green, and, emboldened by the shades
of twilight, his lips sought the identical spot under the white
"fall veil" where her incendiary mouth might be supposed to lurk,
quite "fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils.
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