Such things ought not to be written up.''
``It's true, every word of it,'' said his listener with
considerable satisfaction, adding as a special descriptive
note of her own, ``the old toad.''
And as she hobbled away through the farmyard she shrilled
out in her cracked voice, ``Martha Pillamon is an old
witch!''
``Did you hear what she said?'' mumbled a weak, angry
voice somewhere behind Crefton's shoulder. Turning hastily,
he beheld another old crone, thin and yellow and wrinkled,
and evidently in a high state of displeasure. Obviously
this was Martha Pillamon in person. The orchard seemed to
be a favourite promenade for the aged women of the
neighbourhood.
``'Tis lies, 'tis sinful lies,'' the weak voice went on.
``'Tis Betsy Croot is the old witch. She an' her daughter,
the dirty rat. I'll put a spell on 'em, the old nuisances.''
As she limped slowly away her eye caught the chalk
inscription on the barn door.
``What's written up there?'' she demanded, wheeling round
on Crefton.
``Vote for Soarker,'' he responded, with the craven
boldness of the practised peacemaker.
The old woman grunted, and her mutterings and her faded
red shawl lost themselves gradually among the tree-trunks.
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