“A man that used to work around your place,” said he, after a moment’s hesitation. “He skipped out a few weeks ago,” he added, generously enlarging upon the lie.
Silence fell between them. Mr. Baxter was thinking profoundly, his brow wrinkled, his eyes fixed on one of his bony hands.
“Just so it wasn’t—Oliver,” he said at last, swallowing hard. He had removed the gaudy muffler. His Adam’s apple rose and fell twice convulsively. “I’d hate to have people think he did it.”
“Your pipe’s gone out, Ollie,” said Mr. Gooch brusquely.
“You can’t blame it,” sighed Mr. Baxter, yawning again. “I’m too tired to keep it going.”
Horace busied himself about the stove and at the sink over by the window.
“I guess you won’t mind my asking a question, Ollie,” he said, turning to his brother-in-law. “Seeing that you hate me, what put it into your head to come here to-night and ask for lodging in my house, knowing that I hate you as much as you do me—or more?”
“Well, you see,” began Mr. Baxter, very wistfully and yet shamefacedly, “I’ve been among strangers for so long, Horace, and I’ve been so homesick for some of my own folks that I—well, I sort of felt I’d like to see even you.”
Mr. Gooch pulled at his whiskers for a long time.
“Come to think of it, Ollie,” he said, rather loudly, due to the discovery that the other was having great difficulty in keeping his eyes open, “I guess I’ll have you sleep in that big feather bed in the—er—in my second spare room. How will that suit you? And I’ll let you have a nice, fresh night-shirt. Come along. Better get to bed.”