“Thank you—reckon the bunkhouse will be my quarters.”
He spoke to the pony. Uncle Jepson spoke at the same instant, and Patches halted:
“I cal’late you’d better wait here.”
“If you insist,” said Randerson. He swung off and walked to the edge of the porch, grinning mildly at Uncle Jepson. The handclasp between them was warm, for Uncle Jepson had been strongly attracted to this son of the plains; and the twinkle in Randerson’s eyes as his met Uncle Jepson’s was not to be mistaken.
“So Vickers has gone,” said Randerson as he dropped into a chair. “He’s a mighty fine man.”
“Willard wanted Chavis to have his job,” whispered Uncle Jepson.
“You don’t say!” Randerson’s eyes gleamed. “An’ Miss Ruth didn’t want him, I reckon.” He caught Uncle Jepson’s nod. “She’s allowin’ that she’s goin’ to be boss. But of course she would,” he added. He stood up, for Aunt Martha had opened the door and was standing in it, looking at him. He removed his hat and bowed to her, his eyes gleaming with something near affection, for Aunt Martha had found a place in his heart. He stepped forward, took her hand, and escorted her to the largest and most comfortable of the rockers on the porch, and when she sat down she looked up at him and smiled.
“I reckon you like it here?” he said gently to Aunt Martha.
“I like it very much. But there are differences—after Poughkeepsie. One doesn’t notice them so much at first.”
“I expect you find it sort of rough here,” he said, looking at her. “They tell me that in the East folks live pretty close together—that there’s conveniences. There ain’t a heap of conveniences here.” He pronounced the word slowly and laboriously. It was plain that he was trying to put on his best manners.