Well, sir, I looked toward the door, and who should be coming in but Old Mose himself. Right behind him was Chancy. Chet he took one look and made for the old fellow and grabbed him by the arm.
“Why, Mr. Miller,” says he, grabbing for the old man’s hand to shake it, “I dun’no’ when I’ve been so tickled to see anybody. How be you, anyhow? Hope you’re feelin’ spry as a two-year-old.”
Old Mose scowled at him.
“Do, eh? Do you, now? Huh! Who be you, anyhow? What call you got to be mixin’ up with my health? Glad to see me, be you? Well, young feller, ’tain’t mutual. Not none. Leggo that hand. Leggo.”
“But, Mr. Miller, I am glad to see you. You and my father is old friends. He often speaks of you. Honest he does. You hain’t forgot Henry Weevil, have you?”
“No, nor I hain’t likely to, the shiftless old coot! Henry Weevil’s son, be you? Reckon you take after him, too. Necktie looks like it. Henry had about gumption enough to spend his last quarter for a red rag to tie around his neck.”
Just then Chancy came springing forward and made a grab at Chet.
“You quit pesterin’ and disturbin’ this old gentleman,” says he. “He’s my uncle, he is, and I hain’t goin’ to stand by to see no town loafer molestin’ him. You git.”
Old Mose took one look at Chancy—and it was considerable of a look, too.
“Uncle!” he snorted. “Uncle, is it? Don’t let it git out. I hain’t proud of it. Don’t go claimin’ no relationship with me, you young flapdoodle. I’d rather be catched stealin’ sheep than to have folks remember I was your uncle. Git out. Git away from me ’fore I up and bust the toe of my boot on you.”