“Howdy, Tom,” he said, “howdy?” And from her hiding-place Sheba saw him rubbing his legs from the knee downwards as he said it, with an air of solid enjoyment which suggested that he was congratulating himself upon something he had in his mind.
“Morning,” responded Tom.
Mr. Stamps rubbed his legs again quite luxuriously.
“You’re a lookin’ well, Tom,” he remarked. “Lord, yes, ye’re a lookin’ powerful well.”
Tom laid his paper down and folded it on his knee.
“Lookin’ well, am I?” he answered. “Well, I’m a delicate weakly sort of fellow in general, I am, and it’s encouraging to hear that I’m looking well.”
Mr. Stamps laughed rather spasmodically.
“I wouldn’t be agin bein’ the same kind o’ weakly myself,” he said, “nor the same kind o’ delycate. You’re a powerfle hansum man, Tom.”
“Yes,” replied Tom, drily, “I’m a handsome man. That’s what carried me along this far. It’s what I’ve always had to rely on—that and a knock-down intellect.”
Mr. Stamps rubbed his legs with his air of luxury again.