A boy of about fourteen leaned upon the table, his bent shoulders making him look like an old man. His hickory shirt, like that of Grant, was still wet with sweat, and discolored here and there with grease, or green from grass. His hair, freshly wet and combed, was smoothed away from his face, and shone in the light of the kerosene lamp. As he ate, he stared at Howard, as if he would make an inventory of each thread of the visitor's clothing.
"Did I look like that at his age?" thought Howard.
"You see we live jest about the same's ever," said Grant as they began eating, speaking with a grim, almost challenging inflection.
The two brothers studied each other curiously, as they talked of neighborhood scenes. Howard seemed incredibly elegant and handsome to them all, with his rich, soft clothing, his spotless linen, and his exquisite enunciation and ease of speech. He had always been "smooth-spoken," and he had become "elegantly persuasive," as his friends said of him, and it was a large factor in his success.
Every detail of the kitchen, the heat, the flies buzzing aloft, the poor furniture, the dress of the people-all smote him like the lash of a wire whip. His brother was a man of great character. He could see that now. His deep-set, gray eyes and rugged face showed at thirty a man of great natural ability. He had more of the Scotch in his face than Howard, and he looked much older.
He was dressed, like the old man and the boy, in a checked shirt without vest. His suspenders, once gay-colored, had given most of their color to his shirt, and had marked irregular broad bands of pink and brown and green over his shoulders. His hair was uncombed, merely pushed away from his face. He wore a mustache only, though his face was covered with a week's growth of beard. His face was rather gaunt and was brown as leather.
Howard could not eat much. He was disturbed by his mother's strange silence and oppression, and sickened by the long-drawn gasps with. which the old man ate his bread and milk, and by the way the boy ate. He had his knife gripped tightly in his fist, knuckles up, and was scooping honey upon his bread.
The baby, having ceased to be afraid, was curious, gazing silently at the stranger.
"Hello, little one! Come and see your uncle. Eh? 'Course 'e will," cooed Howard in the attempt to escape the depressing atmosphere.
The little one listened to his inflections as a kitten does, and at last lifted its arms in sign of surrender.
The mother's face cleared up a little. "I declare, she wants to go to you."
"'Course she does. Dogs and kittens always come to me when I call 'em. Why shouldn't my own niece come?"
He took the little one and began walking up and down the kitchen with her, while she pulled at his beard and nose. "I ought to have you, my lady, in my new comedy. You'd bring down the house."
"You don't mean to say you put babies on the stage, Howard," said his mother in surprise.
"Oh, yes. Domestic comedy must have a baby these days."
"Well, that's another way of makin' a livin', sure," said Grant. The baby had cleared the atmosphere a little. "I s'pose you fellers make a pile of money."
"Sometimes we make a thousand a week; oftener we don't."
"A thousand dollars!" They all stared.
"A thousand dollars sometimes, and then lose it all the next week in another town. The dramatic business is a good deal like gambling-you take your chances."
"I wish you weren't in it, Howard. I don't like to have my son-"
"I wish I was in somethin' that paid better'n farmin'. Anything under God's heavens is better'n farmin'," said Grant.
"No, I ain't laid up much," Howard went on, as if explaining why he hadn't helped them. "Costs me a good deal to live, and I need about ten thousand dollars lee-way to work on. I've made a good living, but I-I ain't made any money."
Grant looked at him, darkly meditative.
Howard went on:
"How'd ye come to sell the old farm? I was in hopes-"
"How'd we come to sell it?" said Grant with terrible bitterness.
"We had something on it that didn't leave anything to sell. You probably don't remember anything about it, but there was a mortgage on it that eat us up in just four years by the almanac.
'Most killed Mother to leave it. We wrote to you for money, but I don't s'pose you remember that."
"No, you didn't."
"Yes, I did."
"When was it? I don't-why, it's-I never received it. It must have been that summer I went with Rob Mannmg to Europe." Howard put the baby down and faced his brother. "Why, Grant, you didn't think I refused to help?"
"Well, it locked that way. We never heard a word from yeh all summer, and when y' did write, it was all about yerself 'n plays 'n things we didn't know anything about. I swore to God I'd never write to you again, and I won't."
"But, good heavens! I never got it."
"Suppose you didn't. You might of known we were poor as Job's off-ox. Everybody is that earns a living. We fellers on the farm have to earn a livin' for ourselves and you fellers that don't work. I don't blame yeh. I'd do it if I could."
"Grant, don't talk so! Howard didn't realize-"
"I tell yeh I don't blame 'im. Only I don't want him to come the brotherly business over me, after livin' as he has-that's all." There was a bitter accusation in the man's voice.
Howard leaped to his feet, his face twitching. "By God, I'll go back tomorrow morning!" he threatened.
"Go, an' be damned! I don't care what yeh do," Grant growled, rising and going out.
"Boys," called the mother, piteously, "it's terrible to see you quarrel."
"But I'm not to blame, Mother," cried Howard in a sickness that made him white as chalk. "The man is a savage. I came home to help you all, not to quarrel."
"Grant's got one o' his fits on," said the young wife, speaking for the first time. "Don't pay any attention to him. He'll be all right in the morning."
"If it wasn't for you, Mother, I'd leave now and never see that savage again."
