Part 36 (1/2)

”n.o.body! What did you do with it?”

”Oh, tore it up,” Sam said patiently.

His grandfather fell back in his chair, speechless, A moment later, he told Sam he was not only a fool, but a d--

”Supper's ready, suh,” said Simmons. ”Glad you're back, Master Sam. He ain't lookin' peart, suh?” Simmons added confidentially to Mr. Wright.

”Well, you get some of that Maderia--'l2,” commanded the old man, pulling himself up from his chair. ”Sam, you are a born idiot, aren't you? Come and have some supper. Didn't I tell you you might have to try a dozen publishers before you found one who had any sense? Your experience just shows they're a fool lot. And you tore up your ma.n.u.script! Gad-a-mercy!” He grinned and swore alternately, and banged his hat on to his head so that his ears flattened out beneath the brim like two red flaps.

They sat down at either end of the dining-room table, Simmons standing at one side, his yellow eyes gleaming with interested affection and his fly-brush of long peac.o.c.k feathers waving steadily, even when he moved about with the decanter.

”I had to come back,” Sam repeated, and drank his gla.s.s of '12 Maderia with as much appreciation as if it had been water.

”I've got a new family,” Mr. Wright declared, ”Simmons, unhook that second cage, and show him the nest. Look at that. Three of 'em.

Hideous, ain't they? Simmons, you didn't chop that egg fine enough. Do you want to kill 'em all? A n.i.g.g.e.r has no more feeling for birds than a cat.”

”I done chop it, as--”

”Hold your tongue!” said Mr. Wright, amiably ”Here; take that.” He fumbled in his vest pocket, and the peac.o.c.k feathers dipped dangerously as Simmons caught the expected cigar. ”Come, come, young man, haven't you had enough to eat? Give him another gla.s.s of wine, Simmons, you freckled n.i.g.g.e.r! Come out on the porch, and tell me your wanderings, Ulysses.”

The boy was faintly impressed by his grandfather's attentions; he felt that he was welcome, which gave him a vague sort of pleasure. On the porch, in the hot dusk, Benjamin Wright talked; once or twice, apropos of nothing, he quoted some n.o.ble stanza, apparently for the joy of the rolling numbers. The fact was, he was full of happiness at his grandson's return, but he had had so little experience in happiness that he did not know how to express it. He asked a good many questions, and received apathetic answers.

”Have you got any notes of the drama?”

”No, sir.”

”Doggone your picter!--

”'Then sing, ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song, And let the young lambs bound As to the tabor's sound!”

So you made up your mind to come home?”

”I had to come back, ”Sam said.

There was a pause. Benjamin Wright was reminding himself that in handling a boy, one must be careful not to Say the wrong thing; one must express one's self with reserve and delicacy; one must weigh one's words--boys were such jacka.s.ses.

”Well;” he said, ”got over your fool falling in love with a female old enough to be your mother?”

Sam looked at him.

”I hope your trip has put sense into you on that subject, anyhow?”

”I love Mrs. Richie as much as I ever did, if that's what you mean, sir,” Sam said listlessly.

Upon which his grandfather flew into instant rage. ”As much in love as ever! Gad-a-mercy! Well; I give you up, sir, I give you up. I spend my money to get you out of this place, away from this female, old enough to be your grandmother, and you come back and say you are as much in love with her as ever. I swear, I don't believe you have a drop of my blood in you!” He flung his cigar away, and plunged his hand down into the ginger-jar on the bench beside him; ”A little boy like you, just in breeches! Why, your mother ought to put you over her knee, and--”

he stopped. ”You have no sense, Sam,” he added with startling mildness.

But Sam's face was as red as his grandfather's. ”She is only ten years older than I. That is nothing. Nothing at all. If she will overlook my comparative youth and marry me, I--”