“I ain’t what ye might call an old residenter,” said David, “though I was part raised on Buxton Hill, an’ I ain’t so well ’quainted with the nabobs; but Polly’s lived in the village ever sence she got married, an’ knows their fam’ly hist’ry, dam, an’ sire, an’ pedigree gen’ally.  Of course,” he remarked, “I know all the men folks, an’ they know me, but I never ben into none o’ their houses except now an’ then on a matter of bus’nis, an’ I guess,” he said with a laugh, “that Polly ’d allow ’t she don’t spend all her time in that circle.  Still,” he added, “they all know her, an’ ev’ry little while some o’ the women folks ‘ll come in an’ see her.  She’s putty popular, Polly is,” he concluded.

“I should think so, indeed,” remarked John.

“Yes, sir,” said David, “the’s worse folks ’n Polly Bixbee, if she don’t put on no style; an’ the fact is, that some of the folks that lives here the year ‘round, an’ always have, an’ call the rest on us ’village people,’ ‘r’ jest as countryfied in their way ‘s me an’ Polly is in our’n—­only they don’t know it.  ’Bout the only diff’rence is the way they talk an’ live.”  John looked at Mr. Harum in some doubt as to the seriousness of the last remark.

“Go to the ‘Piscopal church, an’ have what they call dinner at six o’clock,” said David.  “Now, there’s the The’dore Verjooses,” he continued; “the ‘rig’nal Verjoos come an’ settled here some time in the thirties, I reckon.  He was some kind of a Dutchman, I guess” ["Dutchman” was Mr. Harum’s generic name for all people native to the Continent of Europe]; “but he had some money, an’ bought land an’ morgidges, an’ so on, an’ havin’ money—­money was awful scurce in them early days—­made more; never spent anythin’ to speak of, an’ died pinchin’ the ’rig’nal cent he started in with.”

“He was the father of Mr. Verjoos the other banker here, I suppose?” said John.

“Yes,” said David, “the’ was two boys an’ a sister.  The oldest son, Alferd, went into the law an’ done bus’nis in Albany, an’ afterw’ds moved to New York; but he’s always kept up the old place here.  The old man left what was a good deal o’ propity fer them days, an’ Alf he kept his share an’ made more.  He was in the Assembly two three terms, an’ afterw’ds member of Congress, an’ they do say,” remarked Mr. Harum with a wink, “that he never lost no money by his politics.  On the other hand, The’dore made more or less of a muddle on’t, an’ ’mongst ’em they set him up in the bankin’ bus’nis.  I say ‘them’ because the Verjooses, an’ the Rogerses, an’ the Swaynes, an’ a lot of ’em, is all more or less related to each other, but Alf’s reely the one at the bottom on’t, an’ after The ‘d lost most of his money it was the easiest way to kind o’ keep him on his legs.”

“He seems a good-natured, easy-going sort of person,” said John by way of comment, and, truth to say, not very much interested.

“Oh, yes,” said David rather contemptuously, “you could drive him with a tow string.  He don’t know enough to run away.  But what I was gettin’ at was this:  He an’ his wife—­he married one of the Tenakers—­has lived right here fer the Lord knows how long; born an’ brought up here both on ’em, an’ somehow we’re ‘village people’ an’ they ain’t, that’s all.”