March, 1887. The old man’s stomach is bothering him again. He has to stay in bed right along.
September 2, 1892. Abbie Grant says Uncle Jed’s pain is worse. He’s not long for this world.
July, 1895. That pain in Uncle Jed’s insides still hangs on. It will be the death of him.
August 2, 1898. Deborah Grant was here to-day. The old man still breathes.
May, 1900. Uncle Jed is still alive and kicking.
When I had finished reading these items aloud, Chet drew his chin back against his neck and laughed with that robust vigor which is characteristic of him; and I, without at all understanding the jest, nevertheless laughed in sympathy.
“But it seems to me,” I suggested, “that the record ends here a bit abruptly. What happened to the old man, anyway?”
“That was old Uncle Jed Grant,” Chet told me, tears of mirth in his eyes. “I could tell you things about Uncle Jed that ’u’d surprise you.”
Mrs. McAusland called from the kitchen to warn me that if I didn’t look out I’d get Chet started; but I reassured her, and bade Chet tell on. That which follows is the substance of his telling.