“That’s true. Business is bad—account of the panic last year, you know.” Bill Carrow paused a moment. “Had your dinner?”
“No, but I can wait until——”
“You ain’t going to wait. You come with me and I’ll fill you up. Your father did the same for me many a time. Come on.”
Andy was hungry, and could not resist this kindly invitation. Soon the pair were eating a plain but substantial dinner, which Carrow procured from the camp cook. It was disposed of in a corner of the mess cabin, apart from the other lumbermen. As they ate the lumberman asked the youth about himself and his uncle.
“That uncle of yours ought to be ashamed of himself, that’s my opinion of it,” said Bill Carrow. “If I was you, I’d not lift my finger to support him. He was the laziest young feller I ever knew, and it’s nothing but laziness now. He ought to be supporting you instead of you supporting him.”
“I can support myself—if he’d only leave me alone and not try to get my money away from me.”
“He squandered that money your father left—I know all about it. I’d make him go to work.”
“I can’t make him do anything.”
“The boys ought to go over and ride him on a rail, or tar and feather him. I guess that would wake him up.”
“Oh, I hope they don’t do that! He’s a bad man when he gets in a rage.” Andy did not want any more trouble than had already fallen to his portion.