"You certainly are a wonder at getting things to grow. Though I must say I do think my hydrangey has come out better this year than yours, Mrs. Bell. Ain't you afraid of warshin' those flowers up by the roots? Well, we do have different methods."
Mrs. Bell made no reply. At last Floyd heard her say, "There, I guess that's sprinkling enough for my plants."
"Going in, are you? I think I'll stay and water a while longer. Now don't forget, Mrs. Bell; you're going to tell me when Letty's going to give that musical; I do love to see her when she performs, as well as hear."
"Yes," said Mrs. Bell, "I expect she'll let you know."
"And"—there was another insinuating ripple of laughter—"if anything should come of having Mr. Halket in the house—well, you never can tell, but I guess you could trust her to let Hugh Farrell down as easy as possible."
Floyd bounced up from his bed; he had at first been amused, now he was disgusted by the vulgarity of the conversation. Putting on his coat, he went out of doors to stroll about the town. The streets were lighted by streamers of natural gas from the tops of lamp-posts, flaring loose and unconfined against the dark. There was an additional weird illumination from the mills, which sent up gusts of fire and showed red, searing, squirming lines that were never visible by day. Down in the main street at the bottom of the hill these were shut from view, though glancing up the slope Floyd noticed how great waves of light suddenly overflowed and obliterated the wavering shadows flung by the gas-lamps.
The shops and stores were all open, gay, doing a brisk business; hucksters of fruit had their handcarts crowded up against the curbstone, and were trying by shouting and by placarding cheap prices to dispose of berries, peaches, and pears while there was yet time; they waved paper bags and held up grimy fingers, soliciting custom. Bare-headed women with baskets on their arms scuttled
