"'Dosia," replied Justus Hoxon in a mild tone. Then, with an effort at exculpation, "I 'lowed ye'd be keen—plumb sharp set—fur news 'bout the prospec's o' the 'lection. An' she 'lowed ez ye hed kem down hyar hopin' ter git a deer. 'T war The'dosia."
At the name the other had turned slightly away and looked down, a gesture that invidious daylight might have interpreted as anxiety, or faltering, or at the least replete with consciousness. But even if open to observation, it could scarcely have signified aught to Justus Hoxon, wrapped in his own thoughts, and in his absorbing interest in the events of the day. His mental attitude was so apparent to his brother, albeit his form was barely distinguishable as they stood together by the salt lick, that Wat ventured a question—a bold one, it seemed to him, and he felt a chill because of its temerity.
"Glad ter see ye, I s'pose?"
"Plumb tickled ter death," exclaimed Justus, his laughing voice full of reminiscent enthusiasm. "Thar war a big crowd at the Cross-Roads ter hear the speakin', an' a toler'ble gatherin' at Sycamore Gap. Everybody inquired partic'lar arter ye, an' whenst I tole 'em ye war tuk sick, an' couldn't be thar, an' I war 'lectioneerin' in yer place, they shuck han's, an' shuck han's. One ole man—ole Sam Coggins, up ter Sims's Mill—says ter me, he says, 'I dunno yer brother, Justus Hoxon; but blister my boots, ef I don't vote fur anybody ez air kin ter you-uns, an' ez ye hev set yer heart on 'lectin' ter office.' An' the way folks inquired arter ye, an'"—
"I ain't talkin' 'bout the 'lection," Wat broke in brusquely. "I war axin' 'bout 'Dosia. She war"—he hesitated—"liable ter be glad ter see ye, I reckon."
There was a note of surprise in his brother's voice from which Wat shrank in sudden alarm. "Oh, 'Dosia! Course she war glad. I seen her jes' now, an' she told me ez ye hed kem down ter the lick ter git a shot at the deer, bein' ez she hed 'lowed the venison war powerful good 'bout now. I never stayed but a minute. I says, ''Dosia, ye an' me hev got the rest o' our lives ter do our courtin' in, but this 'lection hev got ter be tended ter now, kase ef Wat ain't 'lected it'll set him back all his life. Some folks 'low ez 't ain't perlite an' respec'ful, nohow, fur pore folks like we-uns ter run fur office, like ez ef we war good ez anybody.' An' 'Dosia she jes' hustled me out'n the house. 'G'long! G'long! Do everything 'bout'n the 'lection! Turn every stone! Time enough fur courtin' arterward! Time enough!'"
Once more Justus laughed contentedly.
The man beside him stirred uneasily, then broke out irritably: "Waal, I'm powerful tired o' this 'lection foolishness, fur one. I wisht I hed never let ye push an' boost me inter it. I reckon them war right ez 'lowed pore folks like we-uns ain't fit ter run fur office, an' ain't goin' ter git 'lected. I'd never hev dreamt o' sech ef it hedn't been fur you-uns—never in this worl'." Walter's voice sunk moodily, and he had a flouting gesture as he turned aside.
A vicarious ambition is the most ungrateful of passions. There was something more than anger, than eager affection, than urgent reproach, than prescient alarm, albeit all rang sharply forth, in his brother's voice raised to reply; it was a keen note of helplessness, from which Walter's nerves recoiled with a sense of pain, so insistently clamorous it was.
"How kin ye say that!" cried Justus. "Fur ye ter stan' thar, ready ter throw away all yer good chances, jes' kase ye hev got the rheumatics an' don't feel like viewin' the people—though it 'pears like ye air well enough ter go huntin' of deer of a damp night at a salt lick! An' then, kase a mean-spirited half-liver flings dirt on ye an' yer fambly, fur ye ter sit down on a low stool, an' fill yer mouth with mud, an' 'low this air plenty good enough fur we-uns! 'Pore folks ain't fit ter git 'lected ter office!'" with scornful iteration. "My Lord! this hyar is a democratic kentry!" with an echo from the stump speeches of the day. "Leastwise the folks yander at Sycamore Gap 'peared ter think so. This hyar Tom Markham he war speakin' on the issues o' the day, an' bein' he's a frien' o' Sheriff Quigley's, he tuk a turn at me an' you-uns, o' course. Tole the folks how my dad an' mam died whenst I war twelve year old, an' how the only reason the fambly warn't sent ter the pore-house war kase the county folks war dil'tory, an' put it off, till they 'lowed our own house war pore enough. An' then he sot out ter be mighty funny, an' mocked the way I useter call the t'other chil'n 'Fambly,' sech ez—'Fambly, kem ter dinner, Fambly!' 'Shet up yer cryin', Fambly!' An' then he tole how I cooked—gathered all sorts o' yarbs an' vegetables tergether an' sot a pot ter bile, an' whenever 'Fambly' war hongry 'Fambly' tuk a snack, an' gracefully eat out'n the pot with thar fingers. An' sometimes 'Fambly' war moved ter wash thar clothes, an' they all repaired ter the ruver-bank, an' rubbed out thar rags, an' hung 'em on the bushes ter dry—an', duty done, 'Fambly' went a-wadin'. Everybody jes' laffed an' laffed!"