The old man’s outstretched hand pointed to the south. “On Weehawken Heights. It seems like yesterday. Ah! my dear boys, Burr was no gentleman! I wish I had time to show you my last letters to him, and my onion patch too. Do you like onions?” the old man suddenly asked McConnell.
“I like them pickled,” said McConnell.
“Dear me!” exclaimed the old man, “I haven’t one pickled. But suppose you photograph me anyway. I’m the oldest thing here except the hills and the river.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind standing in the doorway of your house,” ventured Owen.
“My house! Nonsense!” ejaculated the old man. “I am only living here temporarily. The place is but forty years old. I shall soon have to have another place. I outgrow them all. No; take me here with the trees. Just wait,” and the old man walked away to the hut and soon returned with a straw hat on his head. “I must look like a gentleman,” he said.
“You don’t mind us all taking you?” asked Allan.
“No,” returned the old man, “I don’t mind. It is a long time since I was photographed; it was on my hundredth birthday, I think, in 1857. Dear me! how time flies when you are busy with state papers and onions and things.”
“‘I must look like a gentleman,’ he said.”
“Poor old man!” said Owen as they moved away after thanking him.