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Even to this day they never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are at their game of nine-pins; and it is a common wish of all henpecked husbands in the neighbourhood, when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Wrinkle's flagon.
"It's all right, Dick," he said. "You don't know what to do. I'm going to close it for you. He'll take it, stranger." Bradley's eyes were on the startled gambler. "I'll act for him." There was a pause. Wrinkle's face was set under an expression of blended fear, doubt, and half-willingness, but he said nothing, simply staring at Bradley as a subject might under the spell of a hypnotist.
At the window Pennoyer said: "Now, for heaven's sake, don't let them see you! Be careful, Grief, you'll tumble. Don't lean on me that way, Wrink; think I'm a barn door? Here they come. Keep back. Don't let them see you." "O-o-oh!" said Grief. "Talk about a peach! Well, I should say so." Florinda's fingers tore at Wrinkle's coat sleeve. "Wrink, Wrink, is that her? Is that her?
Dixie Hart was right; I wasn't toting fair with you, and I want to tell you to-night, Alfred, that I see my error, and and I am plumb sorry." He turned upon her resolutely. She was looking down, and he fancied she was about to shed such tears as she had often shed early in their married life when Dick Wrinkle's name was mentioned.
A thousand dollars is a lot of money back home. Call him in." A change crept over Wrinkle's visage; he glided back behind the counter, picked up his towel and began wiping the counter's top till he was in a position to see the gambler. He caught the man's eye and laughed tauntingly: "Hey, Parson, you are always making your brags," he called out.
He heard his horses pawing in their stalls, old Wrinkle's pig grunting in its pen; the chickens roosting in a cherry-tree hard by chirped and flapped their wings as they jostled one another on the boughs; all nature seemed normal and at peace save himself. What was wrong? How could it go on? Where was it to end?
Henley was recalling Wrinkle's sage remarks. "Dealing with a woman you've known all her life is risky enough, without going as far as Ben did for an opportunity to get slapped in the face. But he ought to be thankful he found her out in time." "Finding her out ain't going to lighten the blow." Mrs. Henley shrugged her shoulders.
"Well, Alf Henley is sole owner an' manager now," was the bomb which exploded in Wrinkle's hands. "He's the John Robinson and P. T. Barnum of the whole capoodle." "You don't mean that he has actually gone off with " began Mrs. Henley, but was checked by the old man's smile of correction. "Well, he ain't, to say, actually started out yit," the old man grinned.
The new-comer was at the bottom of the steps now, and, depositing his things on the grass, he came up with his hand extended. "Well, here I am," he cried, as he clasped Wrinkle's hand and shook it cordially. "I never was as glad to strike Georgia grit in my life. I feel like a old soldier back from war.
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