Part 21 (2/2)

”I wouldn't be surprised,” Aunt Polly lowered her voice, ”if he couldn't remember it himself! I've heard of such cases. Whenever I try to draw him out to talk about himself and what happened to him before you found him, it breaks him all up; seemingly gives him a back-set every time.

He sort of slinks into himself in that queer, lost way--just like he was when he first come to.”

”He's had a powerful jar to his const.i.tution, and his mind is taking a rest.” Leander was fond of a diagnosis. ”There wasn't enough life left in him to keep his faculties and his bod'ly organs all a-going at once.

The upper story's to let.”

”I wish you'd go upstairs, and see what he is doing up there.”

”Aw, no! Let him be. He likes to go off by himself and do his thinking.

I notice it rattles him to be talked to much. He sets out there on the choppin'-block, looking at the bluffs--ever notice? He looks and don't see nothin', and his lips keep moving like he was learning a spellin'-lesson. If I speak to him sharp, he hauls himself together and smiles uneasy, but he don't know what I said. I tell you he's waking up; coming to his memories, and trying to sort 'em out.”

”That's just what _I_ say,” Aunt Polly retorted, ”but he's got to eat his meals. He can't live on memories.”

Uncle John was restless that evening, and appeared to be excited. He waited upon Aunt Polly after supper with a feverish eagerness to be of use. When all was in order for bedtime, and Leander rose to wind the clock, he spoke. It was getting about time to roll up his blankets and pull out, he said. Leander felt for the ledge where the clock-key belonged, and made no answer.

”I was saying--I guess it's about time for me to be moving on. The gra.s.s is starting”--

”Are you cal'latin' to live on gra.s.s?” Leander drawled with cutting irony. ”Gettin' tired of the old woman's cooking? Well, she ain't much of a cook!”

Uncle John remained silent, working at his hands. His mouth, trembled under his thin straggling beard. ”I never was better treated in my life, and you know it. It ain't handsome of you, Lewis, to talk that way!”

”He don't mean nothing, Uncle John! What makes you so foolish, Looander!

He just wants you to know there's no begrudgers around here. You're welcome, and more than welcome, to settle down and camp right along with us.”

”Winter and summer!” Leander put in, ”if you're satisfied. There's n.o.body in a hurry to see the last of ye.”

Uncle John's mild but determined resistance was a keen disappointment to his friends. Leander thought himself offended. ”What fly's stung you, anyhow! Heard from any of your folks lately?”

The old man smiled.

”Got any money salted down that needs turning?”

”Looander! Quit teasing of him!”

”Let him have his fun, ma'am. It's all he's likely to get out of me. I have got a little money,” he pursued. ”'T would be an insult to name it in the same breath with what you've done for me. I'd like to leave it here, though. You could pa.s.s it on. You'll have chances enough. 'T ain't likely I'll be the last one you'll take in and do for, and never git nothing out of it in return.”

There was a mild sensation, as the speaker, fumbling in his loose trousers, appeared to be seeking for that money. Aunt Polly's eyes flamed indignation behind her tears. She was a foolish, warm-hearted creature, and her eyes watered on the least excuse.

”Looander, you shouldn't have taunted him,” she admonished her husband, who felt he had been a little rough.

”Look here, Uncle John, d'you ever know anybody who wasn't by way of needing help some time in their lives? We don't ask any one who comes here”--

”He didn't come!” Aunt Polly corrected.

”Well, who was brought, then! We don't ask for their character, nor their private history, nor their bank account. I don't know but you're the first one for years I've ever took a real personal s.h.i.+ne to, and we've h'isted a good many up them stairs that wasn't able to walk much further. I'd like you to stay as a favor to us, dang it!”

Leander delivered this invitation as if it were a threat. His straight-cut mustache stiffened and projected itself by the pressure of his big lips; his dark red throat showed as many obstinate creases as an old snapping-turtle's.

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