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Updated: May 26, 2025
Instead, he closed the stove and resumed his former seat. "By the way," he digressed, "I just received a letter from Scotty Baker. I wrote him some time ago about Mr. Rankin. He answered from England." Grannis made no comment, and, the conversation being obviously at an end, after a bit he rose, and with a taciturn "Good-night," left the room. Days and weeks passed.
Grannis and his buccaneers were behind the Automatic, but it was possible to direct and strengthen the backfire which the Era and other conservative newspapers had already begun. Mr.
They ripped a seam for you so far," he indicated, "and it's open yet." Turning his free left arm, Ben touched the bandage at his side, and the hand came back moist and red. Now that it occurred to him, he was ridiculously weak. "I see. I'm liable to rip it more," he commented slowly. The other nodded. "Yes; don't talk. I ought to have stopped you before this." "Grannis!"
Late as it was, Miss Baker brewed a cup of tea and sat down in her rocking chair close to the partition; she rocked gently, sipping her tea, calming herself after the emotions of that wonderful evening. Old Grannis heard the clinking of the tea things and smelt the faint odor of the tea. It seemed to him a signal, an invitation.
I used to hear you when I was making tea." It hardly seemed possible to Miss Baker that she was actually talking to Old Grannis, that the two were really chatting together, face to face, and without the dreadful embarrassment that used to overwhelm them both when they met on the stairs. She had often dreamed of this, but had always put it off to some far-distant day.
A withered hand indicated a spot on the left breast. "He went quick." Grannis said nothing, and walking up Ben Blair stopped beside the bunk. He took a long look at the kindly heavy face of the only man he had ever called friend; but not a feature of his own face relaxed, not a muscle quivered. Grannis watched him fixedly, almost with fascination.
You ain't got a pair you don't want, have you? You two people have less junk than any one else in the flat. How do you manage, Mister Grannis? You old bachelors are just like old maids, just as neat as pins. You two are just alike you and Mister Grannis ain't you, Miss Baker?" Nothing could have been more horribly constrained, more awkward. The two old people suffered veritable torture.
Over in the corner, by the stand of shelves, Old Grannis was listening to Maria Macapa. The Mexican woman had been violently stirred over Trina's sudden wealth; Maria's mind had gone back to her younger days. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, her eyes wide and fixed. Old Grannis listened to her attentively.
Rankin watched her a moment indifferently; then without turning his head, his eyes shifted in their narrow slits of sockets until they rested upon one of the cowboys. "What time was it you saw that smoke, Grannis?" he asked. The man addressed paused in the operation of rolling a cigarette. "'Bout an hour ago, I should say. I was just thinking of coming in to dinner."
"Don't you go to your dog hospital any more, Mister Grannis?" said Trina, leaning against the balustrade in the hall, willing to talk a moment. Old Grannis stood in the doorway of his room, in his carpet slippers and faded corduroy jacket that he wore when at home. "Why why," he said, hesitating, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "You see I'm thinking of giving up the little hospital."
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