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Updated: June 8, 2025
He answered that he thought that was pretty bad, but he did not believe that was the worst thing in Cynthia's eyes. He did not forbid his mother's trying to do what she could with her, and he went away for a walk, and left the house to the two women. Jombateeste was in the barn, which he preferred to the house, and Frank Whitwell had gone to church over at the Huddle.
"Let him up, and let him walk away, you say?" he demanded of Whitwell. Whitwell nodded. "That's what Jombateeste said. Said Jeff said if he let the feller look back he'd shoot him. But he didn't haf to." "I can't make it out," Westover sighed. "It's been too much for me," Whitwell said. "I told Jombateeste he'd better keep it to himself, and I guess he done so.
"There is a blind off one of the windows. I heard it clapping in the wind the other night. I must go and see the number of the room." She drew her head in quickly and ran away without letting him see her face. He followed her. "Let me help you put it on again!" "No, no!" she called back. "Frank will do that, or Jombateeste, when they come to shut up the house."
"What's Mr. Whitwell going for?" "You hask Mr. W'itwell." "All right. And if I can get him to stay will you stay too, Jombateeste? I don't like to see a rat leaving a ship; the ship's sure to sink, if he does. How do you suppose I'm going to run Lion's Head without you to throw down hay to the horses? It will be ruin to me, sure, Jombateeste.
He talked resolutely to every one at the table, but Jombateeste was always preoccupied with eating at his meals, and Frank Whitwell had on a Sunday silence, which was perhaps deepened by a feeling that there was something wrong between his sister and Jeff, and it would be rash to commit himself to an open friendliness until he understood the case.
He went out into the ell, and Westover heard him raising a window. He came back and asked, "That do? It 'll get around in here directly," and Westover had to profess relief. Jackson came in presently with the little Canuck, whom Whitwell presented to Westover: "Know Jombateeste?"
Give it to me." "I don' know. I think I drop something on the road. I saw something white; maybe snow; good deal of snow." "Don't plague! Give it here!" "Wait I finish unhitch. I can't find any letter till I get some time to look." "Oh, now, Jombateeste! Give me my letter!" "W'at you want letter for? Always same thing. Well! 'Old the 'oss; I goin' to feel."
Whitwell leaned forward and took a straw into his mouth from the golden wall of oat sheaves in the barn where they were talking. A soft rustling in the mow overhead marked the remote presence of Jombateeste, who was getting forward the hay for the horses, pushing it toward the holes where it should fall into their racks. "I should want to think about it," said Whitwell.
Me, I guess they got some prophet find it hout for them; then they goin' take the credit." "I guess that's something so, Jombateeste," said Whitwell. "It don't stand to reason that folks without any alphabet, as you may say, and only a lot of pictures for words, like Injuns, could figure out the immortality of the soul. They got the idee by inspiration somehow. Why, here! It's like this.
His interest in the matter, which he tried to hide at first under a mask of decorous indifference, mounted with the fire of Whitwell's enthusiasm, and they held nightly councils together, studying his course on the map, and consulting planchette upon the points at variance that rose between them, while Jombateeste sat with his chair tilted against the wall, and pulled steadily at his pipe, which mixed its strong fumes with the smell of the kerosene-lamp and the perennial odor of potatoes in the cellar under the low room where the companions forgathered.
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