IX
A CLOUD IN THE MUDGE HORIZON
Mr. Mudge was accustomed to call Paul at five o’clock, to milk the cows and perform other chores. He himself did not rise till an hour later. During Paul’s sickness, he was obliged to take his place,—a thing he did not relish overmuch. Now that our hero had recovered, he gladly prepared to indulge himself in an extra nap.
“Paul!” called Mr. Mudge from the bottom of the staircase leading up into the attic, “it’s five o’clock; time you were downstairs.”
Mr. Mudge waited for an answer, but none came.
“Paul!” repeated Mr. Mudge in a louder tone, “it’s time to get up; tumble out there.”
Again there was no answer.
At first, Mr. Mudge thought it might be in consequence of Paul’s sleeping so soundly, but on listening attentively, he could not distinguish the deep and regular breathing which usually accompanies such slumber.
“He must be sullen,” he concluded, with a feeling of irritation. “If he is, I’ll teach him–”
Without taking time to finish the sentence, he bounded up the rickety staircase, and turned towards the bed with the intention of giving our hero a smart shaking.
He looked with astonishment at the empty bed. “Is it possible,” he thought, “that Paul has already got up? He isn’t apt to do so before he is called.”
At this juncture, Mrs. Mudge, surprised at her husband’s prolonged absence, called from below, “Mr. Mudge!”
“Well, wife?”
“What in the name of wonder keeps you up there so long?”
“Just come up and see.”
Mrs. Mudge did come up. Her husband pointed to the empty bed.
“What do you think of that?” he asked.
“What about it?” she inquired, not quite comprehending.
“About that boy, Paul. When I called him I got no answer, so I came up, and behold he is among the missing.”
“You don’t think he’s run away, do you?” asked Mrs. Mudge startled.
“That is more than I know.”
“I’ll see if his clothes are here,” said his wife, now fully aroused.
Her search was unavailing. Paul’s clothes had disappeared as mysteriously as their owner.
“It’s a clear case,” said Mr. Mudge, shaking his head; “he’s gone. I wouldn’t have lost him for considerable. He was only a boy, but I managed to get as much work out of him as a man. The question is now, what shall we do about it?”
“He must be pursued,” said Mrs. Mudge, with vehemence, “I’ll have him back if it costs me twenty dollars. I’ll tell you what, husband,” she exclaimed, with a sudden light breaking in upon her, “if there’s anybody in this house knows where he’s gone, it is Aunt Lucy Lee. Only last week I caught her knitting him a pair of stockings. I might have known what it meant if I hadn’t been a fool.”
“Ha, ha! So you might, if you hadn’t been a fool!” echoed a mocking voice.
Turning with sudden anger, Mrs. Mudge beheld the face of the crazy girl peering up at her from below.
This turned her thoughts into a different channel.
“I’ll teach you what I am,” she exclaimed, wrathfully descending the stairs more rapidly than she had mounted them, “and if you know anything about the little scamp, I’ll have it out of you.”
The girl narrowly succeeded in eluding the grasp of her pursuer. But, alas! for Mrs. Mudge. In her impetuosity she lost her footing, and fell backward into a pail of water which had been brought up the night before and set in the entry for purposes of ablution. More wrathful than ever, Mrs. Mudge bounced into her room and sat down in her dripping garments in a very uncomfortable frame of mind. As for Paul, she felt a personal dislike for him, and was not sorry on some accounts to have him out of the house. The knowledge, however, that he had in a manner defied her authority by running away, filled her with an earnest desire to get him back, if only to prove that it was not to be defied with impunity.
Hoping to elicit some information from Aunt Lucy, who, she felt sure, was in Paul’s confidence, she paid her a visit.
“Well, here’s a pretty goings on,” she commenced, abruptly. Finding that Aunt Lucy manifested no curiosity on the subject, she continued, in a significant tone, “Of course, YOU don’t know anything about it.”
“I can tell better when I know what you refer to,” said the old lady calmly.
“Oh, you are very ignorant all at once. I suppose you didn’t know Paul Prescott had run away?”
“I am not surprised,” said the old lady, in the same quiet manner.
Mrs. Mudge had expected a show of astonishment, and this calmness disconcerted her.
“You are not surprised!” she retorted. “I presume not, since you knew all about it beforehand. That’s why you were knitting him some stockings. Deny it, if you dare.”
“I have no disposition to deny it.”
“You haven’t!” exclaimed the questioner, almost struck dumb with this audacity.
“No,” said Aunt Lucy. “Why should I? There was no particular inducement for him to stay here. Wherever he goes, I hope he will meet with good friends and good treatment.”
“As much as to say he didn’t find them here. Is that what you mean?”
“I have no charges to bring.”
“But I have,” said Mrs. Mudge, her eyes lighting with malicious satisfaction. “Last night you missed a ten-dollar gold piece, which you saw was stolen from you. This morning it appears that Paul Prescott has run away. I charge him with the theft.”
“You do not, can not believe this,” said the old lady, uneasily.
“Of course I do,” returned Mrs. Mudge, triumphantly, perceiving her advantage. “I have no doubt of it, and when we get the boy back, he shall be made to confess it.”
Aunt Lucy looked troubled, much to the gratification of Mrs. Mudge. It was but for a short time, however. Rising from her seat, she stood confronting Mrs. Mudge, and said quietly, but firmly, “I have no doubt, Mrs. Mudge, you are capable of doing what you say. I would advise you, however, to pause. You know, as well as I do, that Paul is incapable of this theft. Even if he were wicked enough to form the idea, he would have no need, since it was my intention to GIVE him this money. Who did actually steal the gold, you PERHAPS know better than I. Should it be necessary, I shall not hesitate to say so. I advise you not to render it necessary.”
The threat which lay in these words was understood. It came with the force of a sudden blow to Mrs. Mudge, who had supposed it would be no difficult task to frighten and silence Aunt Lucy. The latter had always been so yielding in all matters relating to herself, that this intrepid championship of Paul’s interests was unlooked for. The tables were completely turned. Pale with rage, and a mortified sense of having been foiled with her own weapons, Mrs. Mudge left the room.
Meanwhile her husband milked the cows, and was now occupied in performing certain other duties that could not be postponed, being resolved, immediately after breakfast was over, to harness up and pursue the runaway.
“Well, did you get anything out of the old lady?” he inquired, as he came from the barn with the full milk-pails.
“She said she knew beforehand that he was going.”
“Eh!” said Mr. Mudge, pricking up his ears, “did she say where?”
“No, and she won’t. She knit him a pair of stockings to help him off, and doesn’t pretend to deny it. She’s taken a wonderful fancy to the young scamp, and has been as obstinate as could be ever since he has been here.”
“If I get him back,” said Mr. Mudge, “he shall have a good flogging, if I am able to give him one, and she shall be present to see it.”
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Mudge, approvingly, “when are you going to set out after him?”
“Right after breakfast. So be spry, and get it ready as soon as you can.”
Under the stimulus of this inspiring motive, Mrs. Mudge bustled about with new energy, and before many minutes the meal was in readiness. It did not take long to dispatch it. Immediately afterwards, Mr. Mudge harnessed up, as he had determined, and started off in pursuit of our hero.
In the meantime the two boys had walked leisurely along, conversing on various subjects.
“When you get to the city, Paul,” said John, “I shall want to hear from you. Will you write to me?”
Paul promised readily.
“You can direct to John Burges, Burrville. The postmaster knows me, and I shall be sure to get it.”
“I wish you were going with me,” said Paul.
“Sometimes when I think that I am all alone it discourages me. It would be so much pleasanter to have some one with me.”
“I shall come sometime,” said John, “when I am a little older. I heard father say something the other day about my going into a store in the city. So we may meet again.”
“I hope we shall.”
They were just turning a bend of the road, when Paul chanced to look backward. About a quarter of a mile back he descried a horse and wagon wearing a familiar look. Fixing his eyes anxiously upon them, he was soon made aware that his suspicions were only too well founded. It was Mr. Mudge, doubtless in quest of him.
“What shall I do?” he asked, hurriedly of his companion.
“What’s the matter?”
This was quickly explained.
John was quickwitted, and he instantly decided upon the course proper to be pursued. On either side of the road was a growth of underbrush so thick as to be almost impenetrable.
“Creep in behind there, and be quick about it,” directed John, “there is no time to lose.”
“There,” said he, after Paul had followed his advice, “if he can see you now he must have sharp eyes.”
“Won’t you come in too?”
“Not I,” said John, “I am anxious to see this Mr. Mudge, since you have told me so much about him. I hope he will ask me some questions.”
“What will you tell him?”
“Trust me for that. Don’t say any more. He’s close by.”
X
MR. MUDGE MEETS HIS MATCH
John lounged along, appearing to be very busily engaged in making a whistle from a slip of willow which he had a short time before cut from the tree. He purposely kept in the middle of the road, apparently quite unaware of the approach of the vehicle, until he was aroused by the sound of a voice behind him.
“Be a little more careful, if you don’t want to get run over.”
John assumed a look of surprise, and with comic terror ran to the side of the road.
Mr. Mudge checked his horse, and came to a sudden halt.
“I say, youngster, haven’t you seen a boy of about your own size walking along, with a bundle in his hand?”
“Tied up in a red cotton handkerchief?” inquired John.
“Yes, I believe so,” said Mr. Mudge, eagerly, “where did you–”
“With a blue cloth cap?”
“Yes, where–”
“Gray jacket and pants?”
“Yes, yes. Where?”
“With a patch on one knee?”
“Yes, the very one. When did you see him?” said Mr. Mudge, getting ready to start his horse.
“Perhaps it isn’t the one you mean,” continued John, who took a mischievous delight in playing with the evident impatience of Mr. Mudge; “the boy that I saw looked thin, as if he hadn’t had enough to eat.”
Mr. Mudge winced slightly, and looked at John with some suspicion. But John put on so innocent and artless a look that Mr. Mudge at once dismissed the idea that there was any covert meaning in what he said. Meanwhile Paul, from his hiding-place in the bushes, had listened with anxiety to the foregoing colloquy. When John described his appearance so minutely, he was seized with a sudden apprehension that the boy meant to betray him. But he dismissed it instantly. In his own singleness of heart he could not believe such duplicity possible. Still, it was not without anxiety that he waited to hear what would be said next.
“Well,” said Mr. Mudge, slowly, “I don’t know but he is a little PEAKED. He’s been sick lately, and that’s took off his flesh.”
“Was he your son?” asked John, in a sympathizing tone; “you must feel quite troubled about him.”
He looked askance at Mr. Mudge, enjoying that gentleman’s growing irritation.
“My son? No. Where–”
“Nephews perhaps?” suggested the imperturbable John, leisurely continuing the manufacture of a whistle.
“No, I tell you, nothing of the kind. But I can’t sit waiting here.”
“Oh, I hope you’ll excuse me,” said John, apologetically. “I hope you won’t stop on my account. I didn’t know you were in a hurry.”
“Well, you know it now,” said Mr. Mudge, crossly. “When and where did you see the boy you have described? I am in pursuit of him.”
“Has he run away?” inquired John in assumed surprise.
“Are you going to answer my question or not?” demanded Mr. Mudge, angrily.
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have asked so many questions, only I thought he was a nice-looking boy, and I felt interested in him.”
“He’s a young scamp,” said Mr. Mudge, impetuously, “and it’s my belief that you’re another. Now answer my question. When and where did you see this boy?”
This time Mr. Mudge’s menacing look warned John that he had gone far enough. Accordingly he answered promptly, “He passed by our farm this morning.”
“How far back is that?”
“About three miles.”
“Did he stop there?”
“Yes, he stopped a while to rest.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“Yes, I saw him about half a mile back.”
“On this road?”
“Yes, but he turned up the road that branches off there.”
“Just what I wanted to find out,” said Mr. Mudge, in a tone of satisfaction, “I’m sure to catch him.”
So saying, he turned about and put his horse to its utmost speed, determined to make up for lost time. When he was fairly out of sight, Paul came forth from his hiding-place.
“How could you do so!” he asked in a reproachful tone.
“Could I do what?” asked John, turning a laughing face towards Paul. “Didn’t I tell old Mudge the exact truth? You know you did turn up that road. To be sure you didn’t go two rods before turning back. But he didn’t stop to ask about that. If he hadn’t been in such a hurry, perhaps I should have told him. Success to him!”
“You can’t think how I trembled when you described me so particularly.”
“You didn’t think I would betray you?” said John, quickly.
“No, but I was afraid you would venture too far, and get us both into trouble.”
“Trust me for that, Paul; I’ve got my eyes wide open, and ain’t easily caught. But wasn’t it fun to see old Mudge fuming while I kept him waiting. What would he have said if he had known the bird was so near at hand? He looked foolish enough when I asked him if you were his son.”
John sat down and gave vent to his pent-up laughter which he had felt obliged to restrain in the presence of Mr. Mudge. He laughed so heartily that Paul, notwithstanding his recent fright and anxiety, could not resist the infection. Together they laughed, till the very air seemed vocal with merriment.
John was the first to recover his gravity.
“I am sorry, Paul,” he said, “but I must bid you good-by. They will miss me from the house. I am glad I have got acquainted with you, and I hope I shall see you again some time before very long. Good-by, Paul.”
“Good-by, John.”
The two boys shook hands and parted. One went in one direction, the other in the opposite. Each looked back repeatedly till the other was out of sight. Then came over Paul once more a feeling of sadness and desolation, which the high spirits of his companion had for the time kept off. Occasionally he cast a glance backwards, to make sure that Mr. Mudge was not following him. But Paul had no cause to fear on that score. The object of his dread was already some miles distant in a different direction.
For an hour longer, Paul trudged on. He met few persons, the road not being very much frequented. He was now at least twelve miles from his starting-place, and began to feel very sensibly the effects of heat and fatigue combined. He threw himself down upon the grass under the overhanging branches of an appletree to rest. After his long walk repose seemed delicious, and with a feeling of exquisite enjoyment he stretched himself out at full length upon the soft turf, and closed his eyes.
Insensibly he fell asleep. How long he slept he could not tell. He was finally roused from his slumber by something cold touching his cheek. Starting up he rubbed his eyes in bewilderment, and gradually became aware that this something was the nose of a Newfoundland dog, whose keen scent had enabled him to discover the whereabouts of the small stock of provisions with which Paul had been supplied by his late companion. Fortunately he awoke in time to save its becoming the prey of its canine visitor.
“I reckon you came nigh losing your dinner,” fell upon his ears in a rough but hearty tone.
At the same time he heard the noise of wheels, and looking up, beheld a specimen of a class well known throughout New England—a tin pedler. He was seated on a cart liberally stocked with articles of tin ware. From the rear depended two immense bags, one of which served as a receptacle for white rags, the other for bits of calico and whatever else may fall under the designation of “colored.” His shop, for such it was, was drawn at a brisk pace by a stout horse, who in this respect presented a contrast to his master, who was long and lank. The pedler himself was a man of perhaps forty, with a face in which shrewdness and good humor seemed alike indicated. Take him for all in all, you might travel some distance without falling in with a more complete specimen of the Yankee.
“So you came nigh losing your dinner,” he repeated, in a pleasant tone.
“Yes,” said Paul, “I got tired and fell asleep, and I don’t know when I should have waked up but for your dog.”
“Yes, Boney’s got a keen scent for provisions,” laughed the pedler. “He’s a little graspin’, like his namesake. You see his real name is Bonaparte; we only call him Boney, for short.”
Meanwhile he had stopped his horse. He was about to start afresh, when a thought struck him.
“Maybe you’re goin’ my way,” said he, turning to Paul; “if you are, you’re welcome to a ride.”
Paul was very glad to accept the invitation. He clambered into the cart, and took a seat behind the pedler, while Boney, who took his recent disappointment very good-naturedly, jogged on contentedly behind.
“How far are you goin’?” asked Paul’s new acquaintance, as he whipped up his horse.
Paul felt a little embarrassed. If he had been acquainted with the names of any of the villages on the route he might easily have answered. As it was, only one name occurred to him.
“I think,” said he, with some hesitation, “that I shall go to New York.”
“New York!” repeated the pedler, with a whistle expressive of his astonishment.
“Well, you’ve a journey before you. Got any relations there?”
“No.”
“No uncles, aunts, cousins, nor nothing?”
Paul shook his head.
“Then what makes you go? Haven’t run away from your father and mother, hey?” asked the pedler, with a knowing look.
“I have no father nor mother,” said Paul, sadly enough.
“Well, you had somebody to take care of you, I calculate. Where did you live?”
“If I tell you, you won’t carry me back?” said Paul, anxiously.
“Not a bit of it. I’ve got too much business on hand for that.”
Relieved by this assurance, Paul told his story, encouraged thereto by frequent questions from his companion, who seemed to take a lively interest in the adventures of his young companion.
“That’s a capital trick you played on old Mudge,” he said with a hearty laugh which almost made the tins rattle. “I don’t blame you a bit for running away. I’ve got a story to tell you about Mrs. Mudge. She’s a regular skinflint.”
XI
WAYSIDE GOSSIP
This was the pedler’s promised story about Mrs. Mudge.
“The last time I was round that way, I stopped, thinking maybe they might have some rags to dispose of for tin-ware. The old lady seemed glad to see me, and pretty soon she brought down a lot of white rags. I thought they seemed quite heavy for their bulk,—howsomever, I wasn’t looking for any tricks, and I let it go. By-and-by, when I happened to be ransacking one of the bags, I came across half a dozen pounds or more of old iron tied up in a white cloth. That let the cat out of the bag. I knew why they were so heavy, then, I reckon I shan’t call on Mrs. Mudge next time I go by.”
“So you’ve run off,” he continued, after a pause, “I like your spunk,—just what I should have done myself. But tell me how you managed to get off without the old chap’s finding it out.”
Paul related such of his adventures as he had not before told, his companion listening with marked approval.
“I wish I’d been there,” he said. “I’d have given fifty cents, right out, to see how old Mudge looked, I calc’late he’s pretty well tired with his wild-goose chase by this time.”
It was now twelve o’clock, and both the travelers began to feel the pangs of hunger.
“It’s about time to bait, I calc’late,” remarked the pedler.
The unsophisticated reader is informed that the word “bait,” in New England phraseology, is applied to taking lunch or dining.
At this point a green lane opened out of the public road, skirted on either side by a row of trees. Carpeted with green, it made a very pleasant dining-room. A red-and-white heifer browsing at a little distance looked up from her meal and surveyed the intruders with mild attention, but apparently satisfied that they contemplated no invasion of her rights, resumed her agreeable employment. Over an irregular stone wall our travelers looked into a thrifty apple-orchard laden with fruit. They halted beneath a spreading chestnut-tree which towered above its neighbors, and offered them a grateful shelter from the noonday sun.
From the box underneath the seat, the pedler took out a loaf of bread, a slice of butter, and a tin pail full of doughnuts. Paul, on his side, brought out his bread and gingerbread.
“I most generally carry round my own provisions,” remarked the pedler, between two mouthfuls. “It’s a good deal cheaper and more convenient, too. Help yourself to the doughnuts. I always calc’late to have some with me. I’d give more for ‘em any day than for rich cake that ain’t fit for anybody. My mother used to beat everybody in the neighborhood on making doughnuts. She made ‘em so good that we never knew when to stop eating. You wouldn’t hardly believe it, but, when I was a little shaver, I remember eating twenty-three doughnuts at one time. Pretty nigh killed me.”
“I should think it might,” said Paul, laughing.
“Mother got so scared that she vowed she wouldn’t fry another for three months, but I guess she kinder lost the run of the almanac, for in less than a week she turned out about a bushel more.”
All this time the pedler was engaged in practically refuting the saying, that a man cannot do two things at once. With a little assistance from Paul, the stock of doughnuts on which he had been lavishing encomiums, diminished rapidly. It was evident that his attachment to this homely article of diet was quite as strong as ever.
“Don’t be afraid of them,” said he, seeing that Paul desisted from his efforts, “I’ve got plenty more in the box.”
Paul signified that his appetite was already appeased.
“Then we might as well be jogging on. Hey, Goliah,” said he, addressing the horse, who with an air of great content, had been browsing while his master was engaged in a similar manner. “Queer name for a horse, isn’t it? I wanted something out of the common way, so I asked mother for a name, and she gave me that. She’s great on scripture names, mother is. She gave one to every one of her children. It didn’t make much difference to her what they were as long as they were in the Bible. I believe she used to open the Bible at random, and take the first name she happened to come across. There are eight of us, and nary a decent name in the lot. My oldest brother’s name is Abimelech. Then there’s Pharaoh, and Ishmael, and Jonadab, for the boys, and Leah and Naomi, for the girls; but my name beats all. You couldn’t guess it?”
Paul shook his head.
“I don’t believe you could,” said the pedler, shaking his head in comic indignation. “It’s Jehoshaphat. Ain’t that a respectable name for the son of Christian parents?”
Paul laughed.
“It wouldn’t be so bad,” continued the pedler, “if my other name was longer; but Jehoshaphat seems rather a long handle to put before Stubbs. I can’t say I feel particularly proud of the name, though for use it’ll do as well as any other. At any rate, it ain’t quite so bad as the name mother pitched on for my youngest sister, who was lucky enough to die before she needed a name.”
“What was it?” inquired Paul, really curious to know what name could be considered less desirable than Jehoshaphat.
“It was Jezebel,” responded the pedler.
“Everybody told mother ‘twould never do; but she was kind of superstitious about it, because that was the first name she came to in the Bible, and so she thought it was the Lord’s will that that name should be given to the child.”
As Mr. Stubbs finished his disquisition upon names, there came in sight a small house, dark and discolored with age and neglect. He pointed this out to Paul with his whip-handle.
“That,” said he, “is where old Keziah Onthank lives. Ever heard of him?”
Paul had not.
“He’s the oldest man in these parts,” pursued his loquacious companion. “There’s some folks that seem a dyin’ all the time, and for all that manage to outlive half the young folks in the neighborhood. Old Keziah Onthank is a complete case in p’int. As long ago as when I was cutting my teeth he was so old that nobody know’d how old he was. He was so bowed over that he couldn’t see himself in the looking-glass unless you put it on the floor, and I guess even then what he saw wouldn’t pay him for his trouble. He was always ailin’ some way or other. Now it was rheumatism, now the palsy, and then again the asthma. He had THAT awful.
“He lived in the same tumble-down old shanty we have just passed,—so poor that nobody’d take the gift of it. People said that he’d orter go to the poorhouse, so that when he was sick—which was pretty much all the time—he’d have somebody to take care of him. But he’d got kinder attached to the old place, seein’ he was born there, and never lived anywhere else, and go he wouldn’t.
“Everybody expected he was near his end, and nobody’d have been surprised to hear of his death at any minute. But it’s strange how some folks are determined to live on, as I said before. So Keziah, though he looked so old when I was a boy that it didn’t seem as if he could look any older, kept on livin,’ and livin’, and arter I got married to Betsy Sprague, he was livin’ still.
“One day, I remember I was passin’ by the old man’s shanty, when I heard a dreadful groanin’, and thinks I to myself, ‘I shouldn’t wonder if the old man was on his last legs.’ So in I bolted. There he was, to be sure, a lyin’, on the bed, all curled up into a heap, breathin’ dreadful hard, and lookin’ as white and pale as any ghost. I didn’t know exactly what to do, so I went and got some water, but he motioned it away, and wouldn’t drink it, but kept on groanin’.
“‘He mustn’t be left here to die without any assistance,’ thinks I, so I ran off as fast I could to find the doctor.
“I found him eatin’ dinner–
“Come quick,” says I, “to old Keziah Onthank’s. He’s dyin’, as sure as my name is Jehoshaphat.”
“Well,” said the doctor, “die or no die, I can’t come till I’ve eaten my dinner.”
“But he’s dyin’, doctor.”
“Oh, nonsense. Talk of old Keziah Onthank’s dyin’. He’ll live longer than I shall.”
“I recollect I thought the doctor very unfeelin’ to talk so of a fellow creetur, just stepping into eternity, as a body may say. However, it’s no use drivin’ a horse that’s made up his mind he won’t go, so although I did think the doctor dreadful deliberate about eatin’ his dinner (he always would take half an hour for it), I didn’t dare to say a word for fear he wouldn’t come at all. You see the doctor was dreadful independent, and was bent on havin’ his own way, pretty much, though for that matter I think it’s the case with most folks. However, to come back to my story, I didn’t feel particularly comfortable while I was waitin’ his motions.
“After a long while the doctor got ready. I was in such a hurry that I actilly pulled him along, he walked so slow; but he only laughed, and I couldn’t help thinkin’ that doctorin’ had a hardinin’ effect on the heart. I was determined if ever I fell sick I wouldn’t send for him.
“At last we got there. I went in all of a tremble, and crept to the bed, thinkin’ I should see his dead body. But he wasn’t there at all. I felt a little bothered you’d better believe.”
“Well,” said the doctor, turning to me with a smile, “what do you think now?”
“I don’t know what to think,” said I.
“Then I’ll help you,” said he.
“So sayin’, he took me to the winder, and what do you think I see? As sure as I’m alive, there was the old man in the back yard, a squattin’ down and pickin’ up chips.”
“And is he still living?”
“Yes, or he was when I come along last. The doctor’s been dead these ten years. He told me old Keziah would outlive him, but I didn’t believe him. I shouldn’t be surprised if he lived forever.”
Paul listened with amused interest to this and other stories with which his companion beguiled the way. They served to divert his mind from the realities of his condition, and the uncertainty which hung over his worldly prospects.