CHAPTER XXXVI
A TIN CYLINDER
The week dragged through to a lifeless close, and the anxiety of those nearest Dale perceptibly increased. Unquestionably he was getting thinner, his eyes were deeper and more haunted. In vain did they urge him to rest but he turned a deaf ear to all entreaty.
The doctor had been expected since noon of the previous day, and every sound on the pike brought the old gentleman to his feet, peering hopefully through the trees. Each hour, from twelve on, had made him more restive. Throughout luncheon and dinner his gaze would repeatedly wander across the terrace to a strip of lane in view from the dining-room window; and he sat up late that night, still listening. So he had slept late this Sunday morning.
But Brent, aroused by an undercurrent of some strange excitement, awakened with the birds. He went softly down the hall for his tub and dressed with more than his usual care; all the while wanting to whistle, but desisting through deference to the sleeping household.
As he stepped out into the fresh early morning one might have remarked a noticeable change in him since the night he crossed twice to Bradford's cottage. His eyes were clearer, the flesh upon his cheeks was firm and bronzed. He was a few pounds lighter, and this gave his face a clean-cut, chiselled look. His step was buoyant, and one instinctively knew that beneath the well-fitting clothes played a network of splendidly laced muscles. He threw back his head and took a deep, joyous breath of the cool pure air, then went on toward the chairs clustered in inviting comfort beneath the trees. But the grass and they were still wet, so he began strolling around the tanbark circle, following paths and brushing through dew-bathed spider webs stretched like spun glass across his way.
The picturesque old peach orchard was a wealth of blushing fruit, dropping from the over-weighted branches into a carpet of red clover. He went in here, and came out with his teeth buried in a luscious peach—leaning forward and wanting to laugh as its juice trickled over his chin. For not only were his hands occupied with other peaches, but he was pressing tightly beneath one arm a tin cylinder, three feet long and several inches in diameter. This was the thing Zack first noticed when that worthy appeared some half hour later.
"Good mawnin', Marse Brent," he bowed. "It sho'ly do look good to see you down so fresh an' early! What's dat cu'ious lookin' thing you got dar?"
"It's a lay-over-to-catch-meddlers, Uncle Zack."