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Jeff walked home with forty dollars in his pocket capital to prosecute his honest calling of innkeeper; the blacksmith retired to an adjoining tavern to discuss Jeff's affairs, and further reduce his credit.
It was a request to be put up for the night. But both Bud and Nan were startled. Nan's cheeks paled, and imagination gripped her. She said nothing. With Bud to be startled was to instantly resort to verbal expression. "Wot's wrong?" he demanded. Then the storm broke. It broke almost immoderately before these two who were the intimates of Jeff's life.
"Ugh!" he exclaimed, stopping and regarding us, as if unwilling to advance without permission. "Come in, friend," said Uncle Jeff, rising and going towards him; "sit down, and make yourself at home. You would like some food, I guess?" The Indian again uttered a significant "Ugh!" as, taking advantage of Uncle Jeff's offer, he seated himself by the fire.
Possibly some suggestion in her figure of speech reminded her of Jeff's forgotten duties, so she added in the same breath and tone, "especially when transient customers is waiting for their licker, and Yuba Bill hammerin' on the counter with his glass; and yer ye stand, Jeff, never even takin' up that wet bar-skin enuff to give that young woman her death."
That was what Whitwell understood, and he understood that Jeff's family was going to stay in Lovewell, but Jeff himself wanted to be on the ground day and night.
Each of us will have a good, big, strong carpet-bag, and nothing more. You can cram them as full as you choose, but what you can't git in has got to be left at home." There could be no mistake as to Jeff's earnestness, and neither mother attempted to gainsay his words.
Nature's wounds indicated that men had fought here and been mutilated as ruthlessly. For a time nothing of value rewarded Jeff's search, and he began to succumb to the grewsome associations of the place. At last he resolved to examine one more thicket that bordered an old rail- fence, and then make a long detour rather than go back by the graveyard road over which he had come.
If there's such a thing as the spirits o' the livin' influencin' plantchette, accordin' to Mr. Westover's say, here, I don't see why it wa'n't. Jeff's being so near that got control of her and made her sign his name to somebody else's words. It shows there's something in it." "Well, I'm glad to come back alive, anyway," said Jeff, with a joviality new to Westover.
"Jeff's coming right up after he's eaten," she said, as they look their places at the table. "He's getting the food he needs at the bunkhouse. He guesses he hasn't time to get supper right." "Ah." The announcement gave Bud more pleasure than his monosyllable admitted. His eyes once more took in the picture Nan made as she sat behind the steaming coffee urn at the head of the table.
She must be going to ask him to her house, and very soon, for it was part of Jeff's meagre social experience that this was the way swells did; they might never ask you twice, but they would ask you promptly. The thing that Mrs.
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