Plympton was a village of moderate size. It probably contained about fifteen hundred inhabitants, beside the occupants of outlying farms, for the town was largely agricultural. Those who met our hero surveyed him with attention, for in a small country town all are acquainted, and a stranger is at once recognized as such. One old lady, Mrs. Prudence Peabody, was not content with staring at our hero. She stopped short and addressed him. “Do you live in Plympton, young man?” “Yes, ma’am,” said Tom. “Do you?” “I’ve lived here ever since I was a gal.” “Have you?” asked Tom innocently. “That must be a long time.” “I ain’t so old as I might be,” said the old lady sharply. “Where do you live? I never see you afore.” “It’s a remarkable coincidence that _I_ never set eyes on you before.” “Who be you a living with?” “Mr. Middleton. Shall be happy to receive a call.” The old lady looked sharply at our hero, but his manner was so cool and matter-of-fact that it was impossible to tell whether he intended to be polite or was merely chaffing her. “What’s your name?” asked the old lady. “Thomas Washington,” said our hero. “Sorry I haven’t a card.” “You ain’t related to Gineral Washington, be you?” “I’m his first cousin’s grandson,” answered Tom, who, at any rate, did not possess the traditional love of truth which we usually associate with the name which he had so unjustifiably assumed. “I declare! Who’d have thought it?” exclaimed Mrs. Peabody. “Be you related to the Middletons?” “I don’t think I am,” said Tom hastily, for he could not tolerate such an idea even in joke. “Be you goin’ to stay long?” asked the persevering questioner. “That depends upon my spine,” said Tom gravely. “You don’t mean to say you’ve got the spine complaint?” “Yes, I do.” “Did you ever try poultices?” “Lots of ’em, but I had to give ’em up.” “Why?” “They made me crazy.” “You don’t say!” ejaculated the old lady, sheering off in some alarm. “You needn’t be afraid,” said Tom gravely. “I haven’t had an attack for a week.” This only alarmed Mrs. Peabody the more, and with a hasty good-night she hurried on her way, considerably bewildered by her interview. “She’s a prying old lady, and deserves to be mystified,” said Tom to himself. “I’ll bet a hat she’ll come round to old Middleton’s to-morrow to find out all about me. Halloo! there are two chaps playing ball. I guess I’ll join in.”