lean against the varnished wainscoting, looking at it. A row of windows let those otherwise unoccupied gaze out.
All along the front, ample, mellow light flooded the section of cement side-walk. Between this paving and the triple concrete lanes of US6W stood half a dozen motor-cars, several of them with their headlights on, their front wheels against the side-walk edge. Out of the dark, new figures kept appearing on this well-lighted little stage. Some went to the doors of the store and came over inside; some walked past outside and came in at the post office door. This opened and closed constantly, admitting people who were brought to a halt by the press, distributing themselves as they could along the bits of unoccupied wall, against the board covered with notices about fourth-class mail, the Postmaster General's obsolete request to mail Christmas packages early, and the poster, in colours, of what was being shown at a Sansbury moving-picture theatre.
Above, under dusty glass, hung a framed picture displaying the leaves and flowers of the mountain laurel with an ornately lettered plea to spare it— The Mountain Laurel, Kalmia latifolia, is made, constituted, and declared to be the state flower of the State of Connecticut—Public Acts of 1907. Up to it floated a general haze of tobacco smoke, a general murmur of voices and confusion of conversations.
Here, or stepped out a minute, or just coming in, were most of the men who had a stake in New Winton; power in its government, or position in the sense of running a business or owning a farm. Since everyone knew everyone else, clothes had no symbolic value here. Their good suits were at home. They wore old overcoats, old boots and overshoes; hats and caps meant only to cover the head. Mr. Bates, moving behind the grocery counter, his threadbare jacket hanging open on a sweater of sagging grey, was First Selectman. In a very old black overcoat, Matthew Herring, the Treasurer, retained by his tall, thin frame and composed face a distinct air of gentility. He came, of course, of superior people, living, well enough to-do, in a large house in the unfortunate taste of the seventies above Banning's Bridge. Charles Ordway was more citified. As Representative in the Legislature, he felt the need to be presentable in Hartford. He made up for bringing his new clothes home by great affability; he and Henry Harris, on several occasions his defeated Democratic opponent for his position, stood together in the friendliest possible intimacy. The clock now said ten minutes past six and Lester Dunn called loudly: "Let's go, Helen! Read what he wrote afterwards!"
There was a glimpse, for those against the notice-board, of Helen Upjohn's fleeting pale smile beyond the glass-fronted pigeon holes; a little laughter rewarded Lester Dunn. The door opened and George Weems came in from his adjoining garage. Several voices saluted him. Henry Harris lifted his brown, pointed face and said, "What do you know?"
"Not so much, Henry," George Weems nodded. "Hello, Charley." He paused a moment and added, "Harry just came by and tells me Mamie Talbot's dead."
Silence fell instantly. There was a following murmur; surprise; disinterested consternation; then, in a gradual, grave lament, separate voices: "That's too bad —"
"What, that's a shame —"
"Why, yes, Mr. Weems says Mamie Talbot's dead—"
"Don't seem right. How old's she? Not more than seventeen, I should say —"
"I doubt she's more than sixteen —"
"I surely feel sorry for Mrs. Talbot. You'd think she had her share of —"
"You can't hardly believe it. She was just as lively and —"
Henry Harris looked around, and seeing no one except Matthew Herring who could be called really intimate with the Bannings, allowed himself, for he had a longstanding political feud with Mr. Herring, to say: "I hear she took sick through overwork and underfeeding."
Matthew Herring, though he could not help hearing, paid no attention, so Henry Harris went on:
All along the front, ample, mellow light flooded the section of cement side-walk. Between this paving and the triple concrete lanes of US6W stood half a dozen motor-cars, several of them with their headlights on, their front wheels against the side-walk edge. Out of the dark, new figures kept appearing on this well-lighted little stage. Some went to the doors of the store and came over inside; some walked past outside and came in at the post office door. This opened and closed constantly, admitting people who were brought to a halt by the press, distributing themselves as they could along the bits of unoccupied wall, against the board covered with notices about fourth-class mail, the Postmaster General's obsolete request to mail Christmas packages early, and the poster, in colours, of what was being shown at a Sansbury moving-picture theatre.
Above, under dusty glass, hung a framed picture displaying the leaves and flowers of the mountain laurel with an ornately lettered plea to spare it— The Mountain Laurel, Kalmia latifolia, is made, constituted, and declared to be the state flower of the State of Connecticut—Public Acts of 1907. Up to it floated a general haze of tobacco smoke, a general murmur of voices and confusion of conversations.
Here, or stepped out a minute, or just coming in, were most of the men who had a stake in New Winton; power in its government, or position in the sense of running a business or owning a farm. Since everyone knew everyone else, clothes had no symbolic value here. Their good suits were at home. They wore old overcoats, old boots and overshoes; hats and caps meant only to cover the head. Mr. Bates, moving behind the grocery counter, his threadbare jacket hanging open on a sweater of sagging grey, was First Selectman. In a very old black overcoat, Matthew Herring, the Treasurer, retained by his tall, thin frame and composed face a distinct air of gentility. He came, of course, of superior people, living, well enough to-do, in a large house in the unfortunate taste of the seventies above Banning's Bridge. Charles Ordway was more citified. As Representative in the Legislature, he felt the need to be presentable in Hartford. He made up for bringing his new clothes home by great affability; he and Henry Harris, on several occasions his defeated Democratic opponent for his position, stood together in the friendliest possible intimacy. The clock now said ten minutes past six and Lester Dunn called loudly: "Let's go, Helen! Read what he wrote afterwards!"
There was a glimpse, for those against the notice-board, of Helen Upjohn's fleeting pale smile beyond the glass-fronted pigeon holes; a little laughter rewarded Lester Dunn. The door opened and George Weems came in from his adjoining garage. Several voices saluted him. Henry Harris lifted his brown, pointed face and said, "What do you know?"
"Not so much, Henry," George Weems nodded. "Hello, Charley." He paused a moment and added, "Harry just came by and tells me Mamie Talbot's dead."
Silence fell instantly. There was a following murmur; surprise; disinterested consternation; then, in a gradual, grave lament, separate voices: "That's too bad —"
"What, that's a shame —"
"Why, yes, Mr. Weems says Mamie Talbot's dead—"
"Don't seem right. How old's she? Not more than seventeen, I should say —"
"I doubt she's more than sixteen —"
"I surely feel sorry for Mrs. Talbot. You'd think she had her share of —"
"You can't hardly believe it. She was just as lively and —"
Henry Harris looked around, and seeing no one except Matthew Herring who could be called really intimate with the Bannings, allowed himself, for he had a longstanding political feud with Mr. Herring, to say: "I hear she took sick through overwork and underfeeding."
Matthew Herring, though he could not help hearing, paid no attention, so Henry Harris went on:
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