Uncle Obad was stilted in his written use of language; he felt honored when he meant to say jolly well glad. There was always an obedient servant ring about the way in which he signed himself. The training he had undergone as secretary to charitable societies had spoilt him for familiar letter-writing.
Since the Rapson incident, things had never been quite the same. My good fortune made him uneasy; it placed a gap between us and, I suppose, served to emphasize his non-success. Of his new mode of life since the Christian Boarding House had been abandoned, I had only heard. The thought of him had lain a dusty memory at the back of my mind—which made it all the kinder that he should now remember me. Perhaps he had heard before writing of how Pope Lane had planned to receive me.
As I steamed into the station I hung my head out of the window to catch first sight of him. Yes, there he was. He had grown stouter; his purple whiskers which still bristled like shaving-brushes, had faded to a milky white. He was wearing a long fawn dust-coat which flapped about the calves of his legs. He carried the old exaggerated air of blustering importance, but was a trifle more careless in his dress. His carelessness, however, was now the prosperous untidiness of one who could afford it. In his lapel he wore a scarlet geranium.
As I stepped out, he came fussily towards me. “Very good of you to come, I’m sure—kind and very thoughtful.”
It was his pretense manner—the one he adopted with grown-ups. I wanted to remind him that with me he could take off his armor.
“Still go in for breeding hens?” I asked him.
His face brightened. “I should say so. Our little place is quite a menagerie. We’ve cats, and dogs, and rabbits, and a parrot. And hens! Well, I should say so.”
“And hens,” I laughed. “Remember the old white hen you gave me? It laid one egg and then ate it; after that it died.”
“Should have given it gravel or oyster-shells.” Poultryraising was a subject he never treated lightly. He fussed along beside me, explaining with his old enthusiasm the mysterious ways of fowls.
Outside the station a dog-cart was standing, with a fat little piebald pony between the shafts. We stuffed the baggage under the back-seat, and squeezed into the front together. The pony started off at a smart trot.