"
"My nevvy took me to a show in Boston wunst," said Old Man Bogle,
tentatively, but he was silenced immediately and sternly.
"How kin a man combat evil," he demanded, "if he hain't familiar with
the wiles of it?"
"He kin set his face to the right," said the elder, "and tread the
path."
"You wouldn't b'lieve the things I seen in that show," said Bogle,
waggling his head.
"Don't intend to be called on to b'lieve 'em," said the deacon.
"Look.... Comin' acrost the bridge. There's Locker's boy and that there
Wife-ette, and him lookin' like he'd enjoy divin' down her throat."
"Poor Jason," said the elder, "he's reapin' the whirlwind."
"Kin he be blind?"
"Somebody ought to take Jason off to one side and give him warnin'."
The deacon considered, puckering his thin lips and cocking a hard old
eye. "'Tain't fer us to meddle," he said, righteously. "They's a divine
plan in ever'thing, and we hain't able to see what's behind all this
here. We'll jest set and wait the outcome."
That is what all Coldriver did: it sat and awaited the outcome with
ill-restrained enthusiasm, and while it waited it talked. No word or
gesture or movement of young Homer Locker and Yvette Hinchbrooke went
undiscussed.
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