'Try and take good care of her, then,' I cautioned; "they come too high to throw away." "That's true, sir," he answered, with a sorrowful shake of his head."But the trouble is that as the price goes up the quality gets poorer.My first one lasted near on to thirty years, and did all the chores about the house, to say nothing of the hog-pen; and if you'll believe me, sir, the one before this stuck at the hog-feeding on her wedding day, and then wore out before twelve months were up.'"He finished with his humorous chuckle and lifted his fork skilfully in his left hand.
"I dare say he overvalues himself as a husband," remarked Carraway, joining in the laugh, "but he has at least the merit of being loyal to your family.""Well, I believe he has; but then, he doesn't like new folks or new things, I reckon.There's a saying that his hatred of changes keeps him from ever changing his clothes."Christopher came in at the moment, and with a slight bow to Carraway, slipped into his place.
"What's Jim Weatherby chopping up that log for?" he asked, glancing in the direction of the ringing strokes.
Cynthia looked at him almost grimly, and there was a contraction of the muscles about her determined mouth.
"Ask Lila," she responded quietly.As Christopher's questioning gaze turned to her, Lila flushed rose-pink and played nervously with the breadcrumbs on the table.
"He said he had nothing else to do," she answered, with an effort, "and he knew you were so busy--that was all.""Well, he's a first rate fellow," commented Christopher, as he reached for the pitcher of buttermilk, "but I don't see what makes him so anxious to do my work.""Oh, that's Jim's way, you know," put in Tucker with his offhand kindliness."He's the sort of old maid who would undertake to straighten the wilderness if he could get the job.Why, Iactually found him once chopping off dead boughs in the woods, and when I laughed he excused himself by saying that he couldn't bear to see trees look so scraggy."As he talked, his pleasant pale blue eyes twinkled with humour, and his full double chin shook over his shirt of common calico.
He had grown very large from his long inaction, and it was with a perceptible effort that he moved himself upon his slender crutches.Yet despite his maimed and suffering body he was dressed with a scrupulous neatness which was almost like an air of elegance.As he chatted on easily, Carraway forgot, in listening to him, the harrowing details in the midst of which he sat--forgot the overheated, smoky kitchen, the common pine table with its broken china, and the sullen young savage whom he faced.
For Christopher was eating his dinner hurriedly, staring at his plate in a moodiness which he did not take the trouble to conceal.With all the youthful beauty of his face, there was a boorishness in his ill-humour which in a less commanding figure would have been repellent--an evident pride in the sincerity of the scowl upon his brow.When his meal was over he rose with a muttered excuse and went out into the yard, where a few minutes afterward Carraway was bold enough to follow him.
The afternoon was golden with sunshine, and every green leaf on the trees seemed to stand out clearly against the bright blue sky.In the rear of the house there was a lack of the careful cleanliness he had noticed at the front, and rotting chips from the woodpile strewed the short grass before the door, where a clump of riotous ailanthus shoots was waging a desperate battle for existence.Beside the sunken wooden step a bare brown patch showed where the daily splashes of hot soapsuds had stripped the ground of even the modest covering that it wore.Within a stone's throw of the threshold the half of a broken wheelbarrow, white with mould, was fast crumbling into earth, and a little farther off stood a disorderly group of chicken coops before which lay a couple of dead nestlings.On the soaking plank ledge around the well-brink, where fresh water was slopping from the overturned bucket, several bedraggled ducks were paddling with evident enjoyment.The one pleasant sight about the place was the sturdy figure of Jim Weatherby, still at work upon the giant body of a dead oak tree.
When Carraway came out, Christopher was feeding a pack of hounds from a tin pan of coarse corn bread, and to the lawyer's surprise he was speaking to them in a tone that sounded almost jocular.
Though born of a cringing breed, the dogs looked contented and well fed, and among them Carraway recognised his friend Spy, who had followed at the heels of Uncle Boaz.
"Here, Miser, this is yours," the young man was saying."There, you needn't turn up your nose; it's as big as Blister's.Down, Spy, I tell you; you've had twice your share; you think because you're the best looking you're to be the best fed, too."As Carraway left the steps the dogs made an angry rush at him, to be promptly checked by Christopher.
"Back, you fools; back, I say.You'd better be careful how you walk about here, sir," he added; "they'd bite as soon as not--all of them except Spy.
"Good fellow, Spy," returned Carraway, a little nervously, and the hound came fawning to his feet."I assure you I have no intention of treading upon their preserves," he hastened to explain; "but I should like a word with you, and this seems to be the only opportunity I'll have, as I return to town to-morrow."Christopher threw the remaining pieces of corn bread into the wriggling pack, set the pan in the doorway, and wiped his hands carelessly upon his overalls.
"Well, I don't see what you've got to say to me," he replied, walking rapidly in the direction of the well, where he waited for the other to join him.
"It's about the place, of course," returned the lawyer, with an attempt to shatter the awkward rustic reserve."I understand that it has passed into your possession."The young man nodded, and, drawing out his clasp-knife, fell to whittling a splinter which he had broken from the well-brink.
