“Oh, Ophelia. Oh, Ophelia, what have you been doing?” Nobody knows. Well maybe Mr. Fritter, Smacky’s hired mouse (he scares the finer types away, so says Ophelia), but really he doesn’t count.
Closing her leather chest (snicked from a pretty out in Greer 6 years ago), Ophelia’s mind turns to that Sam Newton. He sure has put himself in a predicament. It wouldn’t look too nice if the town were to find out that he’d been the source of the dynamite that has caused such a ruckus. Ophelia thinks there’s them that’d be none to quick to point as Sam being in league with those rascals, what with his known taste for Newtons. Ophelia’s finger traces the chest’s buckle, recalling that she’s not the only one who knows. She’ll have to pay a visit to Virgil before squeezing Sam. It wouldn’t do to have him deciding to pull the rug out from underneath her feet by backing Sam up.
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