Part 19 (1/2)

”What is it?”

”It's Tom Buckingham come home,” I says. ”But I guess you're the next generation,” and I asked for Andrew McCulloch.

He's a red-faced man with short side whiskers, a chunky, fussy, and hot-tempered man, but whether Madge Pemberton had managed him, or whether he'd worn her out, I couldn't make up my mind about the likelihood. I sat a while talking with him, and watching Madge McCulloch, his daughter, lay the tea table. I thought how I'd give something to get her to lay the tea table for me as a habit, and I didn't see how that was likely to come about.

Andrew McCulloch appeared to think most people in Adrian would be more to his mind if buried with epitaphs describing them accurate.

It was eight o'clock when I came out and started for Pemberton's. I came past McCulloch's fence, and heard some one speak near by, and there was a man sitting on the top rail near the corner. It was considerable dark.

”Been in to see King Solomon?” he says.

”What's that?” I says.

”Major General McCulloch,” he says. ”Why, I believe you stayed to tea!

Why, I haven't fetched that in three months!”

”Why not?”

”Oh,” he says, ”why, you see, the venerable ecclesiastic he's afraid I'd want to come to breakfast too. He thinks I am a gra.s.shopper and a burden.”

I thought it looked like a promising conversation, and climbed on the fence beside him, and took a look at him in the starlight.

He said his name was ”Billy Corliss,” and explained why he sat on the fence. He said it was on account of Andrew McCulloch. He said he and Madge McCulloch were agreed, but Andrew McCulloch wasn't agreeable. That was partly because Andrew wanted Madge to stay where she was, partly because Corliss had no a.s.sets or prospects, and partly because Andrew had an unreasonable low opinion of him, as a roaming and unsettled sort.

He spoke of Andrew by various and soaring names, implying a high opinion of him, and especially in speaking of Andrew's warm temper, his respect got remarkable. He'd call him maybe, ”St. Peter,” in that connection, or maybe ”Sitting Bull.” For candour, and opening his mind, and asking the world for sympathy, I took him to be given that way. He said the town of Adrian was divided into two parties on the subject of him, and Madge, and Andrew McCulloch, so I took it Andrew's temper had had some reasonable exercise.

”St. Peter's got a good run of warm language,” he says, ”but his fence is chilly. He's got a toothache in his shoes, he has, that man.”

”Why don't you elope?” I says.

”That's the trouble,” he says. ”When I ask Madge, 'Why not?' she says, 'Where to?' I'd been thinking I'd take a look around the world and see.”

”Don't you do it,” I says. ”When you get around the other side, it's a long way back. It took me thirty years.”

”You don't mean it!” he says. ”Why, that wouldn't do.”

”a.s.sets take time,” I says, ”but you might get some prospects.”

Then I fell to thinking how it could come about that Madge McCulloch might get into the habit of making tea for me, seeing I was too old to marry her, besides her being spoken for. Then I thought she might do it by keeping a hotel, and I says:

”Speaking of keeping hotels--”

”Who's speaking of it?”

”I am. I kept a hotel once.”

”Seaside?” he says.

”No. Inland a bit.”

”Summer hotel?”