“Uncle Jim’s down below now,” she said, “you’ll probably see him.”
“But he’ll be back in a few days, won’t he?” he queried, looking at her with sudden, sharp inquiry. “If—if—I should be delayed, as I told you I might be, he’ll be here and he’ll look after you. You see more of him now than you do of me. He seems to be more your father than I.”
“He’s here oftener,” she said apologetically, “you’re away so much.”
“Maybe that’s it. I’m not kicking about it. He’s the Graceys’ right hand man now. He’s on top of the heap. He’ll always look out for you, and he’ll be able to do it.”
He turned to throw some more papers on the burning pile, missing her look of surprise.
“Always look out for me!” she repeated. “There’s no need for him to do that. You’ll be back soon.”
“You needn’t take me so literally. But you ought to know by this time that the future’s a pretty uncertain thing. If anything should happen to me, it’s just as I say, he’d be here on the spot ready and willing to take care of you. You can’t look for much from me. If I died to-morrow I wouldn’t leave you a cent. The Barranca’s petered.”
“But the stocks you’re going to San Francisco to sell? They must be worth a good deal. Everybody’s stocks seem to be worth something now. Mitty Sullivan’s cook says she’s thirty thousand ahead.”
“Oh, yes, they’ll bring something.” He spoke absently, took up Thompson’s bill and thrust it on a spike with others of its kind. “There they are, all the tradesmen. Don’t let them bother you. You’d better run along now and let me finish up.”
“Can I help you pack?” she suggested with timid politeness.