"
"Oh!" said Mr. Adams, but without enthusiasm. "Could we now?"
"That is, if we left out the vittles."
"But we're not goin' to."
"O' course not. Vittles for two'll run away with a heap of it.
And then there'll be callers."
"Callers?" Mr. Adams's face brightened.
"Not the sort you mean. Country folk. It's the usual thing when
strangers come an' settle in a place o' this size. . . . But, all the
same, a hundred an' twelve pound, fourteen and six is a heap: an' as
I say, we got to think over bankin' it. A man feels solid settin'
here with money under his belt; an' yet between you an' me I wouldn't
mind if it was less so, in a manner o' speakin'."
"Me, either."
"I was wonderin' what it would feel like to wake in the night an'
tell yourself that someone was rollin' up money for you like a
snowball."
"There might be a certain amount of friskiness in that. But
contrariwise, if you waked an' told yourself the fella was runnin'
off with it, there wuldn'."
"Shore-living folks takes that risk an' grows accustomed to it.
W'y look at the fellow in charge o' this house."
"Where?" asked Mr. Adams nervously.
"The landlord-fellow, I mean, up in the village.
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