The old men sat silent, watching the approach of the visitor, who drove up to the hitching-post near them, and who leaped from his wagon with a briskness almost startling to the aged chorus.
“Spry,” old Simeon commented. “I’ve seen the time, though, when I was spry too.”
Springer fastened his horse, and came toward them.
“How d’ do, boys?” he said cheerily. “How goes it?”
The contrast between his great hearty voice and the thin quavers in which they answered him was pathetic. He lingered a moment, and then turned to make his way into the house. Tim rose and hobbled rheumatically after him.
“Whist, Mister Springer,” he called; “would ye be after waiting a wee bit till I have a word of speech with yer.”
“Well, what can I do for you?” Springer asked good-naturedly. “Don’t they treat you well?”
The old man took him by the arm and drew him around the corner of the house, away from the curious eyes of his companions.
“Whist!” he said, with a strange and sudden air of excitement. “Wait till I’m after telling yer. Your honor’ll mind I’m after trusting yer; trusting yer, and ye’ll no be betraying an old man. It’s meself,” he added, with a touch of pride at once whimsical and pathetic, “is ninety-three the day.”
“Are you as old as that? Well, I’d keep your secret if you were twice as old,” Springer returned, with clumsy but kindly jocoseness.