I am not going to attempt a description of my thoughts that night.
It would take too long and the description would be wearisome. Other
people's miseries are not interesting and I shall not catalog mine.
Morning came at last and I rose, bathed my hot face in cold water, and
went down stairs. Early as it was, not yet six, I heard Dorinda in the
kitchen and, having no desire for conversation, I went out and walked up
and down the beach until breakfast time. I had to pretend to eat, but
I ate so little that both Lute and Dorinda once more commented upon
my lack of appetite. Lute, who had never become fully reconciled to my
becoming a member of the working class, hastened to lay the blame for my
condition upon my labors at the bank.
“The trouble is,” he announced, dogmatically, “the trouble is, Roscoe,
that you ain't fitted for bein' shut up astern of a deck. Look at
yourself now! Just go into Comfort's room and stand in front of her
lookin' glass and look at yourself. There you be, pale and peaked and
wore out. Look for all the world just as I done when I had the tonsils
two winters ago. Ain't that so, Dorindy?”
His wife's answer was a contemptuous sniff.
“If you mean to say that you looked peaked when you had sore throat,”
she announced, “then there's somethin' the matter with your mind or your
eyesight, one or t'other. You peaked? Why, your face was swelled up
like a young one's balloon Fourth of July Day. And as for bein' pale! My
soul! I give you my word I couldn't scurcely tell where your neck left
off and the strip of red flannel you made me tie 'round it begun.”
“Don't make no difference! I FELT pale, anyhow. And I didn't eat no
more'n Ros does. You'll have to give in to that, Dorindy. I didn't eat
nothin' but beef tea and gruel.”
“You et enough of them to float a schooner.”
“Maybe I did,” with grieved dignity; “maybe I did. But that's no reason
why you should set there and heave my sufferin's in my face.”
“What is the man talkin' about now? I didn't heave 'em in your face.
They come there themselves, same as sore throat sufferin's generally do,
and if you hadn't waded around in the snow with leaky boots, because
you was too lazy to take 'em to the shoemaker's to be patched, they
wouldn't.”
Lute drew back from the table. “It's no use!” he declared, “a man can't
even be sick in peace in this house. Some wives would have been sorry to
see their husbands with one foot in the grave.”
“Your feet was in the cookstove oven most of the time. There! there! the
more you talk the further from home you get. You started in with Roscoe
and the bank and you're in the grave already. If I was you I'd quit
afore I went any further. Land knows where you might fetch up if you
kept on! I . . . Mercy on us! who's at the kitchen door this time in the
mornin'?”
Her husband, ever curious, was on his way to answer the knock already.
He came back, a moment later, sputtering with excitement.
“It's that Mr. butler, the Johnson over to Mr. Colton's,” he whispered.
“I mean it's that Jutler--that--There, Dorindy! you see what sort of a
state your hectorin' has worked me into! It's that parson critter who
opens Colton's door for him, that's who 'tis. And he wants to see Ros. I
tried to find out what for, but he wouldn't tell.”
Even Dorinda showed surprise. She looked at the clock, “This hour of the
mornin'!” she exclaimed; “what in the world--?”
I hastened to the kitchen, closing the dining-room door behind me
just in time to prevent Lute's following me. Johnson, the butler,
was standing on the mica slab at the threshold inspecting our humble
premises with lofty disdain.
“Mr. Colton sent this to you, sir,” he said, handing me an envelope. “He
wishes you to send a receipt by me.”
I took the envelope and, stepping back out of sight, tore it open.
Inside was a check on a New York bank for four thousand dollars. It was
made payable to “Bearer.” With it was this brief note:
Dear Paine:
This is the best I can do for you, as I haven't the money on hand. Cash
it yourself, take out your thirty-five hundred and hold the additional
five hundred until I, or one of the family, call for it. I made the
thing payable to Bearer because I imagined you would prefer it that way.
Send me some sort of receipt by Johnson; anything will do. I will see my
lawyer in a day or two. Meanwhile have your papers, deeds, etc., ready
when he calls for them.
Yours truly,
JAMES W. COLTON.
For a minute I considered. If I could cash the check at the bank without
Taylor's knowledge and get him off to Boston on the early train, I
might be able to cover my tracks. It was necessary that they should be
covered. Knowing George as I did I knew that he would never consent to
my sacrifice. He would not permit me to wreck my future in Denboro to
save him. The money must be turned over to the Boston bankers and
the bank's bonds once more in the vault where they belonged before he
learned where that money came from. Then it would be too late to refuse
and too late to undo what had been done. He would have to accept and
I might be able to prevail upon him to keep silent regarding the whole
affair. I disliked the check with Colton's name upon it; I should have
much preferred the cash; but cash, it seemed, could not be had without
considerable delay, and with that bank examiner's visit imminent
every moment of time was valuable. I folded the check, put it in my
pocketbook, and, hastily scribbling a receipt in pencil at the bottom
of Colton's note, replaced the latter in the envelope and handed it to
Johnson, who departed.
Entering the dining-room I found Dorinda and Lute at the window, peering
after the butler.
“By time!” exclaimed Lute, “if I didn't know I should say he was a
bigger big-bug than old Colton himself. Look how he struts! He sartin is
a dignified lookin' man. I don't see how he ever come to be just hired
help.”
“Um-hm,” sniffed the cynical Mrs. Rogers. “Well; you can get an awful
lot of dignity for its board and lodgin'! There's nothin' much more
dignified or struts much better'n a rooster, but it's the hens that lay
the eggs. What did he want, Roscoe?”
I made some excuse or other for Mr. Johnson's early call and, taking
my cap from the rack, hurried from the house. I went “across lots” and,
running a good part of the way, reached the bank just as Sam Wheeler was
sweeping out. He expressed surprise at my early arrival and wished to
know what was up.
“Ain't nothin' wrong, is there, Ros?” asked Sam anxiously. “I saw by the
paper that the market was feverish again yesterday.”
Sam was an ambitious youth and, being desirous of becoming a banker in
the shortest possible time, read the financial page with conscientious
thoroughness. I assured him that the market's fever was not
contagious--at least I had not contracted the disease--and sent him
out to sweep the front steps. As soon as he had gone I opened the safe,
found, to my joy, that we had an abundance of currency on hand, cashed
the Colton check and locked it securely in the drawer of my own desk. So
far I was safe. Now to secure George's safety.
He came in soon after, looking as if, as he had told me, he had not
slept for years. He bade Sam good morning and then walked over to my
side.
“Well, Ros?” he asked, laying a shaking hand on the desk beside me.
“Not here, George,” I whispered. “Come into the directors' room.”
I led the way and he followed me. I closed the door behind us, took the
thirty-five hundred dollars in notes from my pocket and laid them on the
table.
“There's the money, George,” I said. “Now you've got just time enough to
catch that nine o'clock train for Boston.”
I thought, for a moment, he was going to collapse altogether. Then he
pounced upon the money, counted it with fingers that trembled so he
could scarcely control them, and turned to me.
“Ros--Ros--” he stammered. “Where did you--how did you--Great God, man!
I--I--”
“There! there!” I interrupted. “I told you I wasn't a pauper exactly.
Put that where you won't lose it and clear out. You haven't any time to
argue.”
“But--but, Ros, I hadn't ought to take this from you. I don't see where
you got it and--”
“That's my business. Will you go?”
“I don't know as I ever can pay you. Lord knows I'll try all my life,
but--”
I seized his arm. “George,” I urged, impatiently, “you fool, don't waste
time. Get that train, do you hear! Those bonds must be in that safe by
night. Go!”
The mention of the bonds did what my urging had failed to do. He crammed
the bills into his pocket book, thrust the latter into an inside pocket,
and rushed from the room. I followed him as far as the outer door. He
was running up the road like a wild man. Sam stared after him.
“For mercy sakes!” he cried, “what's the matter with the boss? Has he
gone loony?”
“No,” I said, turning back to my desk; “he's sane enough, I guess. He's
after the train.”
“I should think he was after somethin'. Did you see the face he had on
him? If he ain't crazy then you and I are, that's all I've got to say.”
“All right, Sam,” I answered, drawing a long breath, “perhaps that's it.
Perhaps you and I are the crazy ones--one of us, at any rate.”
All that day I worked hard. I did not go home for lunch, but sent Sam
over to Eldredge's store for canned ham and crackers which I ate at my
desk. It was a fairly busy day, fortunately, and I could always find
some task to occupy my mind. Lute called, at two o'clock, to inquire why
I had not been home and I told him that Taylor was away and I should be
late for supper. He departed, shaking his head.
“It's just as I said,” he declared, “you're workin' yourself sick,
that's what you're doin'. You're growin' foolish in the head about
work, just the same as Dorindy. And YOU don't need to; you've got money
enough. If I had independent means same as you've got I tell you I'd
have more sense. One sick invalid in the family's enough, ain't it?”
“No doubt, Lute,” I replied. “At all events you must take care of your
health. Don't YOU work yourself sick.”
Lute turned on me. “I try not to,” he said, seriously; “I try not to,
but it's a hard job. You know what that wife of mine is cal'latin' to
have me do next? Wash the hen house window! Yes sir! wash the window
so's the hens can look at the scenery, I presume likely. I says to her,
says I, 'That beats any foolishness ever I heard! Next thing you'll want
me to put down a carpet in the pigsty, won't ye? You would if we kept a
pig, I know.'”
“What did she say to that?” I inquired.
“Oh, the land knows! Somethin' about keepin' one pig bein' trouble
enough. I didn't pay much attention. But I shan't wash no hen's window,
now you can bet on that!”
I shouldn't have bet much on it. He went away, to spend the next hour in
a political debate at Eldredge's, and I wrote letters, needlessly long
ones. Closing time came and Sam went home, leaving me to lock up. The
train was due at six-twenty, but it was nearly seven before I heard it
whistle at the station. I stood at the front window looking up the road
and waiting.
I waited only a few minutes, but they were long ones. Then I saw George
coming, not running this time, but walking with rapid strides. The
crowd, waiting on the post-office steps, shouted at him but he paid
no attention. He sprang up the steps and entered the bank. I stepped
forward and seized his hand. One look at his face was enough; he had the
bonds, I knew it.
“Ros, you here!” he exclaimed. “Is it all right? The examiner hasn't
showed up?”
“No,” I answered. “You have them, George?”
“Right in my pocket, thank the Lord--and you, Ros Paine. Just let me get
them into that safe and I--What! You're not going?”
“Yes, I'm going. I congratulate you, George. I am as glad as you are.
Good night.”
“But Ros, I want to tell you about it. I want to thank you again. I
never shall forget . . . Ros, hold on!”
But I was already at the door. “Good night,” I called again, and went
out. I went straight home, ate supper, spent a half hour with Mother,
and then went to my room and to bed. The excitement was over, for good
or bad the thing was done beyond recall, and I suddenly realized that I
was very tired. I fell asleep almost immediately and slept soundly until
morning. I was too tired even to think.
I had plenty of time to think during the fortnight which followed and
there was enough to think about. The lawyer came and the papers were
signed transferring to James W. Colton the strip of land over which
Denboro had excited itself for months. Each day I sat at my desk
expecting Captain Dean and a delegation of indignant citizens to rush in
and denounce me as a traitor and a turncoat. Every time Sam Wheeler met
me at my arrival at the bank I dreaded to look him in the face, fearing
that he had learned of my action and was waiting to question me about
it. In spite of all my boasts and solemn vows not to permit “Big Jim”
Colton to obtain the Shore Lane I had sold it to him; he could, and it
was to be expected that he would, close it at once; Denboro would make
its just demand upon me for explanations, explanations which, for George
and Nellie's sake, I could not give; and after that the deluge. I was
sitting over a powder mine and I braced myself for the explosion.
But hours and days passed and no explosion came. The fishcarts rattled
down the Lane without hindrance. Except for the little flurry of
excitement caused by the coming wedding at the Dean homestead the
village life moved on its lazy, uneventful jog. I could not understand
it. Why did Colton delay? He, whose one object in life was to have his
own way, had it once more. Now that he had it why didn't he make use of
it? Why was he holding back? Out of pity for me? I did not believe it.
Much more likely that his daughter, whose pride I had dared to offend,
had taken the affair in her hands and this agony of suspense was a
preliminary torture, a part of my punishment for presuming to act
contrary to her imperial will.
I saw her occasionally, although I tried my best not to do so. Once we
passed each other on the street and I stubbornly kept my head turned in
the other direction. I would risk no more looks such as she had given me
when, in response to her father's would-be humorous suggestion, she had
offered me her “congratulations.” Once, too, I saw her on the bay, I was
aboard the Comfort, having just anchored after a short cruise, and she
went by in the canoe, her newest plaything, which had arrived by freight
a few days before. A canoe in Denboro Bay was a distinct novelty;
probably not since the days of the Indians had one of the light,
graceful little vessels floated there, and this one carried much comment
among the old salts alongshore. It was the general opinion that it was
no craft for salt water.
“Them things,” said Zeb Kendrick, sagely, “are all right for ponds
or rivers or cricks where there ain't no tide nor sea runnin'. Float
anywheres where there's a heavy dew, they say they will. But no darter
of mine should go out past the flats in one of 'em if I had the say.
It's too big a risk.”
“Yup; well, Zeb, you ain't got the say, I cal'late,” observed Thoph
Newcomb. “And it takes more'n say to get a skiff like that one. They
tell me the metal work aboard her is silver-plated--silver or gold, I
ain't sure which. Wonder the old man didn't make it solid gold while he
was about it. He'd do anything for that girl if she asked him to. And
she sartin does handle it like a bird! She went by my dory t'other
mornin' and I swan to man if she and the canoe together wan't a sight
for sore eyes. I set and watched her for twenty minutes.”
“Um--ye-es,” grunted Zeb. “And then you charged the twenty minutes in
against the day's work quahaugin' you was supposed to be doin' for me, I
suppose.”
“You can take out the ten cents when you pay me--if you ever do,” said
Newcomb, gallantly. “'Twas wuth more'n that just to look at her.”
The time had been when I should have agreed with Thoph. Sitting in the
canoe, bare-headed, her hair tossing in the breeze, and her rounded arms
swinging the light paddle, she was a sight for sore eyes, doubtless.
But it was not my eyes which were sore, just then. I watched her for a
moment and then bent over my engine. I did not look up again until the
canoe had disappeared beyond the Colton wharf.
I did not tell Mother that I had sold the land. I intended to do so;
each morning I rose with my mind made up to tell her, and always I
put off the telling until some other time. I knew, of course, that she
should be told; that I ought to tell her rather than to have her learn
the news from others as she certainly would at almost any moment, but I
knew, too, that even to her I could not disclose my reason for
selling. I must keep George's secret as he had kept mine and take the
consequences with a close mouth and as much of my old indifference to
public opinion as I could muster. But I realized, only too well, that
the indifference which had once been real was now only pretense.
I have said very little about George Taylor's gratitude to me, nor his
appreciation of what I had done for him. The poor fellow would have
talked of nothing else if I had let him.
“You've saved my good name and my life, Ros,” he said, over and over
again, “and not only my life, but what is a mighty sight more worth
saving, Nellie's happiness. I don't know how you did it; I believe yet
that there is something behind all this, that you're keeping something
from me. I can't see how, considering all you've said to me about your
not being well-off, you got that money so quick. But I know you don't
want me to talk about it.”
“I don't, George,” I said. “All I ask of you is just to forget the whole
thing.”
“Forget! I shan't forget while I live. And, as soon as ever I can scrape
it together, I'll pay you back that loan.”
He had kept his word, so far as telling Nellie of his financial
condition was concerned. He had not, of course, told her of his use of
the bank bonds, but he had, as he said he would, told her that, in all
probability, he should be left with nothing but his salary.
“I told her she was free to give me up,” he said, with emotion, “and
what do you suppose she said to me? That she would marry me if she knew
she must live in the poorhouse the rest of her days. Yes, and be happy,
so long as we could be together. Well, I ain't worth it, and I told her
so, but I'll do my best to be worth something; and she shan't have to
live in the poorhouse either.”
“I don't think there's much danger of that,” I said. “And, by the way,
George, your Louisville and Transcontinental speculation may not be
all loss. You may save something out of it. There has been considerable
trading in the stock during the past two days. It is up half a point
already, according to the papers. Did you notice it?”
“Yes, I noticed it. But I tell you, Ros, I don't care. I'll be glad to
get some of my money back, of course; enough to pay you and Cap'n Elisha
anyhow; but I'm so happy to think that Nellie need never know I was a
thief that I don't seem to care much for anything else.”
Nellie was happy, too. She came to me and told me of her happiness. It
was all on George's account, of course.
“The poor fellow had lost money in investments,” she said, “and he
thought I would not care for him if I found out he was poor. He isn't
poor, of course, but if he was it would make no difference to me. I am
so glad to see him without that dreadful worried look on his face that
I--I--Oh, you must think me awful silly, Roscoe! I guess I am. I know I
am. But you are the only one I can talk to in this way about--about him.
All Ma wants to talk about now is the wedding and clothes and such, and
Pa always treats me as if I was a child. I feel almost as if you were
the closest friend I have, and I know George feels the same. He says you
have helped him out of his troubles. I was sure you would; that is why I
wrote you that letter. We are both SO grateful to you.”
Their gratitude and the knowledge of their happiness were my sole
consolations in this trying time. They kept me from repenting what I
had done. It was hard not to repent. If Colton had only made known his
purchase and closed the Lane at once, while my resolution was red hot,
I could have faced the wrath of the village and its inevitable
consequences fairly well, I believed; but he still kept silent and made
no move. I saw him once or twice; on one occasion he came into the bank,
but he came only to cash a check and did not mention the subject of the
Lane. He did not look well to me and I heard him tell Taylor something
about his “damned digestion.”
The wedding day came. I, as best man, was busy and thankful for the
bustle and responsibility. They occupied my mind and kept it from
dwelling on other things. George worked at the bank until noon, getting
ready to leave the institution in my charge and that of Dick Small,
Henry's brother, who had reported for duty that morning. The marriage
was to take place at half past one in the afternoon and the bridal
couple were to go away on the three o'clock train. The honeymoon trip
was to be a brief one, only a week.
Every able-bodied native of Denboro, man, woman and child, attended that
wedding, I honestly believe. It was the best sort of advertising for
Olinda Cahoon and Simeon Eldredge, for Olinda had made the gowns worn
by the bride and the bride's mother and a number of the younger female
guests, and Sim had sold innumerable bottles of a peculiarly penetrating
perfume, a large supply of which he had been talked into purchasing by a
Boston traveling salesman.
“Smell it, Ros, do ye?” whispered Sim, grinning triumphantly between
the points of a “stand-up” collar. “I give you my word when that
slick-talkin' drummer sold me all that perfumery, I thought I was stuck
sure and sartin. But then I had an idee. Every time women folks come
into the store and commenced to talk about the weddin' I says to 'em,
says I, 'Can't sell you a couple of handkerchiefs to cry on, can I, Miss
So-and-so? Weddin's are great places for sheddin' tears, you know.' If
I sold 'em the handkerchiefs all well and good; but if they laughed
and said they had a plenty, I got out my sample bottle of 'May Lilock',
that's the name of the cologne, and asked 'em to smell of it. 'If you
cry with that on your handkerchief,' says I, 'all hands will be glad to
have you do it. And only twenty cents a bottle!' You wouldn't believe
how much I sold. You can smell this weddin' afore you come in sight of
the house, can't ye now.”
You could, and you continued to smell it long after you left. My best
suit reeked of “May Lilac” weeks later when I took it out of the closet.
Dorinda was there, garbed in rustling black alpaca, her Sunday gown for
ten years at least, and made over and “turned” four or five times. Lute
was on deck, cutaway coat, “high water” trousers and purple tie, grand
to look upon, Alvin Baker and Elnathan Mullet and Alonzo Black and
Thoph Newcomb and Zeb Kendrick were, as the Item would say, “among those
present” and if Zeb's black cutaway smelled slightly of fish it was, at
least, a change from the pervading “May Lilac.”
Captain Jed strutted pompously about, monarch of the day. He greeted me
genially.
“Hello, Ros!” he said. “You out here? Thought you'd be busy overhaulin'
George's runnin' riggin' and makin' sure he was all ready to heave
alongside the parson.”
“I have been,” I answered. “I am on my way back there now.”
“All right, all right. Matildy give me fits for not stayin' upstairs
until the startin' gun was fired, but I told her that, between her with
her eyes full of tears and Olindy Cahoon with her mouth full of pins,
'twas no place for a male man. So I cleared out till everything was
shipshape. Say, Ros,” he laid his hand on my shoulder and bent to
whisper in my ear: “Say, Ros,” he said, “I'm glad to see you're takin'
my advice.”
“Taking your advice?” I repeated, puzzled.
“Yes; about not playin' with fire, you know. I ain't heard of you and
the Princess cruisin' together for the past week. Thought 'twas best
not to be too familiar with the R'yal family, didn't you? That's right,
that's right. We can't take chances. We've got Denboro and the Shore
Lane to think about, ain't we?”
I did not answer. I did not risk looking him in the face.
“She's liable to be here most any time, I cal'late,” he went on. “Nellie
would insist on invitin' her. And I must say that, to be honest, the
present she sent is the finest that's come aboard yet. The only thing
I've got against her is her bad judgment in pickin' a father. If 'twan't
for that I--hello! Who--Why, I believe--”
There was a commotion among the guests and heads were turned toward the
door. The captain started forward. I started back. She had entered the
room and was standing there, looking about her with smiling interest.
I had forgotten that, considering her friendship with Nellie, she was
certain to be invited.
She was dressed in a simple, but wonderful, white gown and wore a bunch
of lilies of the valley at her bosom. The doorway was decorated with
sprays of honeysuckle and green boughs and against this background she
made a picture that brought admiring whispers from the people near me.
She did not notice me at first and I think I should have escaped by the
side door if it had not been for Sim Eldredge. Simeon was just behind me
and he darted forward with outstretched hand.
“Why, how d'ye do, Miss Colton!” exclaimed Sim. “You're just in time,
ain't ye! Let me get you a chair. Alvin,” to Mr. Baker, who, perspiring
beneath the unaccustomed dignity of a starched shirt front, occupied a
front seat, “get up and let Miss Colton set down.”
She looked in Sim's direction and saw me, standing beside him. I had
no opportunity to avoid her look now, as I had done when we met in
the street. She saw me and I could not turn away. I bowed. She did not
acknowledge the bow. She looked calmly past me, through me. I saw, or
fancied that I saw, astonishment on the faces of those watching us.
Captain Jed stepped forward to greet her and I went into the adjoining
room, where George was anxiously awaiting me.
“Good land, Ros!” he exclaimed, with a sigh of relief, “I was beginning
to be afraid you'd skipped out and left me to go through it all alone.
Say something to brace me up, won't you; I'm scared to death. Say,” with
a wondering glance at my face, “what's struck YOU? You look more upset
than I feel.”
I believe I ordered him not to be an idiot. I know I did not “brace him
up” to any extent.
It was a very pretty wedding. At least every one said it was, although
they say the same of all weddings, I am told. Personally I was very
glad when it was over. Nellie whispered in my ear as I offered her my
congratulations, “We owe it all to you, Roscoe.” George said nothing,
but the look he gave me as he wrung my hand was significant. For a
moment I forgot myself, forgot to be envious of those to whom the door
for happiness was not shut. After all I had opened the door for these
two, and that was something.
I walked as far as the corner with Lute and Dorinda. Dorinda's eyes were
red and her husband commented upon it.
“I thought a weddin' was supposed to be a joyful sort of thing,” he
said, disgustedly. “It's usually cal'lated to be. Yet you and the rest
of the women folks set and cried through the whole of it. What in time
was there to cry about?”
“Oh, I don't know, Luther,” replied Dorinda in, for her, an unusually
tolerant tone. “Perhaps it's because we've all been young once and can't
forget it.”
“I don't forget, no more'n you do. I ain't so old that I can't remember
that fur back, I hope. But it don't make me feel like cryin'.”
“Well, all right. We won't argue about it. Let's be pleasant as we can,
for once.”
Now that is where Lute should have taken the hint and remained silent.
At least he should have changed the subject. But he was hot and
uncomfortable and, I suspect, his Sunday shoes were tight. He persisted.
“Huh!” he sniffed; “I don't see's you've given me no sensible reason for
cryin'. If I recollect right you didn't cry at your own weddin'.”
His wife turned on him. She looked him over from head to foot.
“Didn't I?” she said, tartly. “Well, maybe not. But if I'd realized what
was happenin' to me, I should.”
“Lute,” said I, as I parted from them at the corner, “I am going to the
bank for a little while. Then I think I shall take a short run down the
bay in the Comfort. Did you fill her tank with gasolene as I asked you
to?”
Lute stopped short. “There!” he exclaimed, “I knew there was somethin' I
forgot. I'll do it soon's ever I get home.”
“When you get home,” observed Dorinda, firmly, “you'll wash that
henhouse window.”
“Now, Dorinda, if that ain't just like you! Don't you hear Roscoe askin'
me about that gas? I've had that gas in my head ever since yesterday.”
“Um-hm,” wearily. “Well, I shouldn't think a little extry more or less
would make much difference. Never mind, don't waste any more on me.
Get the gas out of your head, if Roscoe wants you to. You can wash the
window afterward.”
Lute's parting words were that he would fill that tank the very first
thing. If he had--but there! he didn't.