He felt piqued, outwitted. If it could be said that Mr. McCaffrey had an occupation it was that of collecting and gratuitously distributing news. He was the Associated Press of Hopedale, and whosoever fell a victim to his adroit questioning was apt to give up the inmost secrets of his soul.
"Ain't your pumps workin' good, 'Sour-Dough'?" came from across the street.
Mr. McCaffrey felt it unwise to ignore their importunities longer lest they embarrass him by some loud personal allusion, so he arose in leisurely fashion and said in a voice which he hoped would carry across the street:
"Well, s'long. Miss Galbraith—I'll see you later."
He looked coldly into the row of eager faces and demanded:
"Ain't you fellers no manners?"
"Who is she? Where did she come from? Where's she goin'?"
"What do you take me for?" Mr. McCaffrey inquired haughtily. "Do you think I'd set down and ask a strange lady a lot of private questions about herself? Maybe you don't know it, but I been well raised."
