Before I could reply, the door flew open without the formality of a
knock, and old Mrs. Bolum ran in. When she saw him, she stopped and
stared.
"Well, ain't he tasty!" she cried.
[Illustration: Well, ain't he tasty.]
Then she courtesied most formally. "How do you do, Mr. Hope?" she said.
"And how is Mrs. Bolum?" returned Tim gravely, advancing toward her
with his hand outstretched.
The old woman rubbed her own hand on her apron, an honor usually
accorded only to the preacher, and held it out. Tim seized it, but he
brought his other arm around her waist and lifted her from the floor in
one mighty embrace.
"You'll spoil your Sunday clothes," panted Mrs. Bolum, when she reached
the floor again. Stepping back, she eyed him critically. "You look
handsomer than a drummer," she cried admiringly.
"Thank you, ma'am," said Tim very meekly.
"I'm so sorry I left my spectacles at home," she went on. "My eyes
ain't as good as they used to be and I can't see you plain as I'd like.
Mebbe it's my sight as is the trouble, but it seems to me, as I see you
now without my glasses, you're just about the prettiest man that ever
come to Six Stars.
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