"Now, lads," he whispered, "now's the time to gather things together. At two in the morning we'll run for it. Then's the hour they'll be sleeping like so many black pigs."
Gleazen moved and groaned,—it was almost the first time that he had yielded in the least to the pain of his wound.
"Can you travel by yourself, Neil?" Matterson asked. "Or shall I carry you on my back?"
When it came to me that the question was no joke, that Matterson actually meant it, I could not keep from staring at him in amazement. He was a tremendous man, but there was something honestly heroic in his offering to carry Cornelius Gleazen's weight back over all those miles.
Gleazen smiled and shook his head. "Thanks, Mat," he replied, "but I'll make out to scramble along."
The word "scramble," it seemed, caught Uncle Seth's attention, and with a curt nod, he said, "Yes, scramble them; use them any way but boiled. We can't sell cracked eggs in the store, but they're perfectly good to use at home."
We all looked in amazement, and Gleazen, in spite of his pain, hoarsely laughed.
"Why, Seth," he cried, "are you gone crazy?"
My uncle stared blankly at him and continued to pace the room.