For the moment Tom’s expression was one of relief. But he said nothing.
“Thar wasn’t nothin’ thar,” Mr. Stamps continued. Then occurred another pause. “Nothin’,” he added after it, “nothin’ particular.”
The tenderness with which he embraced his knees at this juncture had something like fascination in it.
Tom found himself fixing a serious gaze upon his clasping arms.
“I kinder looked round,” he proceeded, “an’ if there’d ben anythin’ thar I ’low I’d hev seed it. But thar wasn’t nothin’, nothin’ but the empty rooms an’ a dead leaf or so es hed blowed in through a broken winder, an’ the pile o’ ashes in the fireplace beat down with the rain as hed fell down the chimney. Mighty lonesome an’ still them ashes looked; an’ thar wasn’t nothin’ but them an’ the leaves,——an’ a bit of a’ envelope.”
Tom moved his chair back. Sheba thought he was going to get up suddenly. But he remained seated, perhaps because Mr. Stamps began again.
“Thar wasn’t nothin’ but them an’ the bit of a’ envelope,” he remarked. “It was a-sticken in a crack o’ the house, low down, like it hed ben swep’ or blowed thar an’ overlooked. I shouldn’t hev seed it”—modestly—“ef I hedn’t ben a-goin’ round on my hands an’ knees.”
Then Tom rose very suddenly indeed, so suddenly that he knocked his chair over and amazed Sheba by kicking it violently across the store. For the moment he so far forgot himself as to be possessed with some idea of falling upon Mr. Stamps with the intent to do him bodily injury. He seized him by the shoulders and turned him about so that he had an excellent view of his unprepossessing back. What Mr. Stamps thought it would have been difficult to discover. Sheba fancied that when he opened his mouth he was going to utter a cry of terror. But he did not. He turned his neck about as well as he could under the circumstances, and looking up into Tom’s face meekly smiled.
“Tom,” he said, “ye ain’t a-gwine ter do a thing to me, not a dern thing.”
“Yes, I am,” cried Tom, furiously, “I’m goin’ to kick——”