"And poor?"
"Yes, we all are." And I laughed; his manner made me a little uncomfortable.
My reply, however, seemed to reassure him. His features relaxed and a more kindly expression overspread his countenance.
"And now, what are you?" I asked, offering him a cigarette as I spoke.
"Me? Nothing," he replied curtly, refusing it with a wave of his hand. "Only Brockway,—just Brockway,—that's all,—just Brockway." He kept repeating this in an abstracted way, as if the remark was addressed to himself, the words dying in his throat.
Then he moved to the door, took down an oilskin from a peg, and saying that he would get the boat ready, went out into the night, shutting the door behind him, his bare feet flapping like wet fish as he walked.
I was not sorry I was going away so soon. The man and the place seemed uncanny.
I roused myself and crossed the room, attracted by the contents of a cupboard filled with cheap pottery and some bits of fine old English lustre. Then I examined the furniture of the curious interior,—the high-backed chairs, mahogany table,—one leg replaced with pine,—the hair sofa and tall clock in the corner by the door. They were all old and once costly, and all of a pattern of by-gone days. Everything was scrupulously clean, even to the strip of unbleached muslin hung at the small windows.
The door blew in with a whirl of wind, and Brockway entered shaking the wet from his sou'wester.
"You must wait," he said. "Dan the brakeman has taken my boat to the Railroad Dock. He will return in an hour. If you are hungry, you can sup with us. Emily, set a place for the painter."