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"And how is it you are not there, Bolderwood?" demanded Warner. "Wall, I got an idee into my noddle an' leavin' Smith and Brown to watch Old Ti, for it might run away 'fore ye git there, ye know, I trotted down this way ter see the Colonel. Ev'rything is safe there so fur, but there's one thing we've neglected." "What is that, Bolderwood?" cried Allen, riding up and hearing this last sentence.
"The angel Gabriel hisse'f couldn't mek heads or tails o' whut Hiram means," he said in answer to a question from Abner. "He don't know hisse'f whut he means. He's bittah an' sore ag'in ev'rything an' ev'rybody whut hain't ready to fall on Brothah Stone, an' eat him ha'r an' hide.
"I want you to tell me," he said to Mornin, "what she needs. I suppose she needs something or other." "She needs mos' ev'rything, Mars Tom," was the answer; "seems like she hain't bin pervided fer 't all, no more 'n ef she was a-gwine ter be a youn' tukky dat de Lord hisself hed fitted out at de start."
With more philosophical wags of the head, Johnnie fastened them end to end with weaver's knots, and rehung the rope, knowing as he worked that he could never again bear to telephone along that mended line. "Gee! Barber spoils ev'rything!" he declared. After the rope was up he felt weak.
An' I thought somethin' ailed my glasses, an' so I got some new ones. An' I thought at first maybe it helped. But it didn't. Then it got so that't wa'n't only the printin' ter books an' papers that was blurred, but ev'rything a little ways off was in a fog, like, an' I couldn't see anything real clear an' distinct." "Oh, but things other things don't look a mite foggy to me," cried the boy.
A moment later Peigan Charley was giving the results of his expedition in the language of his boss, of which he considered himself a perfect master. "Charley, him find him," he said with deep satisfaction. "Him mak' plenty trail. Much climb. Much ev'rything. So." He looked like a disreputable image carved in mahogany, and arrayed in the sittings of a rag-picker's store.
"Her full name's Narcissa Amy Way," answered Johnnie. "It's pretty long, ain't it? And if Grandpa and me called her that, Big Tom'd think we was wastin' time, or tryin' t' be stylish, and he hates ev'rything that's stylish I don't know why. So round the flat, for ev'ry day, we call her Cis C-i-s." "Well, Miss Narcissa is right about me," said Mr. Perkins.
An' if th' moon would shed would shed 'Never mind the woodshed, sez the gal. 'Go on with yer purty talk. Haw! haw! haw! "Now, this here Nelson Haley ain't got no more control of his tongue than that feller had. Jefers-pelters! what ye goin' ter do with a feller that tells ev'rything he knows jest because he's axed?" "He's perfectly honest," Janice cried. "That shows it."
"T' put it plainer, y' don't look t' me like a real man." Out now came the underlip, threatening, aggressive. "Indeed?" Dire as the insult was, Mr. Perkins was still smiling, was even a trifle bored. "And what kind of a chap do you think is a real man?" "Somebody," answered Big Tom, "that's ev'rything you ain't. Why, honest, you look too nice t' me t' be out in bad weather.
Joints in his armour who can spy? Where's the foot will nor flinch nor fly? Where's the heart that aspires the fray? His battle wager 'tis vain to try Ev'rything passes, passes away." The age is diseased. Why should men be mournful because what they call their aspirations precious aspirations are frustrated?
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