“So that’s what he was! I didn’t know but he was one of them three-card-monty sharks. Wal, I s’pose it’s his trade to ask questions.”
Barnabas’ loquacity always ceased entirely at meal times, so his silence throughout the luncheon was not surprising to David.
“Wal, Dave,” he said as he finished, “ef this 255 is your lunch I’d hate to hev to eat what you’d call dinner. I never et so much before at one settin’!”
“We’ll go over to the club now and have a smoke,” suggested David. “Then you can go back to my office with me and see what I have to undergo every afternoon.”
At the club they met several of David’s friends––not politicians––who met Barnabas with courtesy and composure. When they returned to David’s private office Barnabas was ensconced comfortably in an armchair while David listened with patience to the long line of importuners, each receiving due consideration. The last interview was not especially interesting and Barnabas’ attention was diverted. His eyes fell on a newspaper, which he picked up carelessly. It was the issue of the night before, and his own name was conspicuous in big type. He read the article through and returned the paper to its place without being observed by David, whose back was turned to him.
“Wal, Dave,” he said, when the last of the line had left the room, “I used ter think I’d 256 ruther do enything than be a skule teacher, but I swan ef you don’t hev it wuss yet!”
David made no response. The excitement of his boyish pleasure in showing Uncle Barnabas about had died away as he listened to the troubles and demands of his callers, and now the recollection of the old man’s errand confronted him in full force.
Barnabas looked at him keenly.
“Dave,” he said slowly, “’t ain’t no snap you hev got! I never knowed till to-day jest what it meant to you. I’m proud of you, Dave! I wish––I wish you hed been my son!”
The governor arose impetuously and crossed the room.