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Updated: May 24, 2025
"That finger there, we'll say, is me, rakin' and rakin' hard as ever I can. And that fist there is the Almighty, not meanin' anything irreverent. I rake, same as I'm doin' this mornin'. The yard's all cleaned up. Then zing!" Lute's clenched fist swept across and knocked the offending finger out of the way.
"At least I feel certain that you and I can reach an agreement in that period. If I might be alone with you " This hint, evidently intended for Lute's benefit, was quite lost upon the last named individual, who had seated himself on the edge of the work bench and was listening with both ears.
"Let me see," Uncle Robert demanded, taking the paper and examining it. "Yes, it is Dick's handwriting." "But who is Dick?" Mrs. Grantly insisted. "Who is this Dick Curtis?" "Dick Curtis, why, he was Captain Richard Curtis," Uncle Robert answered. "He was Lute's father," Aunt Mildred supplemented. "Lute took our name. She never saw him. He died when she was a few weeks old. He was my brother."
"Well, Abbie, I'm about in the position of Luther Sylvester when he fell off the dock at Orham. The tide was out, and he went into the soft mud, all under. When the folks who saw him tumble got to the edge and looked over, they saw a round, black thing sticking out of the mire, and, judging 'twas Lute's head, they asked him how he felt.
I remembered Lute's hint and my own secret suspicions, but I answered promptly. "Of course not," I said. "You did not think that, did you?" "No," unblushingly. "I came because from what I had heard of your mother I was sure she must be a wonderful woman. I wanted to meet her. And she IS wonderful; and so patient and sweet and good. I fell in love with her. Everyone must love her.
Talkin' about Lute's fiddlin' I suppose it's true there was some fellows out from Boston happened to hear him playin' one night, up to Sandwich te-own, and they offered him a hundred and fifty a month I Reckon that's true to go along with some fiddlin' company thar' to Boston, and he'd got more if he'd stuck to it, but Lute, he come driftin' back in the course of a week or two. I don't blame him.
When I told of Lute's forgetfulness in the matter of gasolene the lightkeeper thumped the table. "There, by godfreys!" he exclaimed. "I could see it comin'! That feller's for all the world like a cook I had once aboard the Ezry H. Jones. That cook was the biggest numskull that ever drawed the breath of life. Always forgettin' somethin', he was, and always at the most inconvenient time.
You're a little turncoat, that's what they say about you." "Turncoat! Who wouldn't turn a coat they was ashamed of? I guess you all don't remember how I used to say, even back in those years when I was taking tickets down at Lute's old Fourteenth Street Amusement Parlors, how when my little minute came I was going to breeze away from the gang down there?" "I remember, all righty."
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