Publisher's Synopsis
Mr. peaslee looked more complacent than ever. It was Saturday noon, and Solomon had just returned from his usual morning sojourn "up-street." He had taken off his coat, and was washing his face at the sink, while his wife was "dishing up" the midday meal. There was salt codfish, soaked fresh, and stewed in milk-"picked up," as the phrase goes; there were baked potatoes and a thin, pale-looking pie. Mrs. Peaslee did not believe in pampering the flesh, and she did believe in saving every possible cent. "Well," said Mr. Peaslee, as they sat down to this feast, "I guess I've got news for ye." His wife gazed at him with interest. "Are ye drawed?" she asked. "Got the notice from Whitcomb right in my pocket. Grand juror. September term. 'T ain't more'n a week off."
