Barnaby did come again—that very evening, too. And he did not come empty-handed either. Before he sat down on a package—which was the only thing by way of a chair the tent contained—he began to empty his pockets, and Tom could not help smiling at the magnitude and diversity of their contents. Pots of jelly, parcels of Iceland moss, boxes of marvellous tonic pills, bags of arrow-root, and bottles of wine. He handed the things one by one to Samaro, and then he sat down.
“Now, young fellow,” he said, “you haven’t got anything else in this world to do or to think about but getting well. And as to that, why, your worthy servant and myself will shore you up in a brace of shakes. No, you mustn’t talk. You must listen, and I guess I’ll amuse you. See here, you’ve been in the wilds for about a year, haven’t you?”
Tom nodded.
“That’s right,” continued the Yankee. “Nod your head for ‘Yes;’ shut your eyes for ‘No.’ Give yourself no earthly trouble about anything, and we’ll get on like a boundless prairie on fire. You’ve been out o’ the world, I’ve been in it, and every night I’ll tell you or read you some news.”
Barnaby was as good as his word. He came regularly every forenoon and every evening, and read or talked to Tom; and no woman could have been more kind or more considerate. It is not wonderful then that, in less than a fortnight, the patient was able to sit once more by the camp fire, and could give information as well as receive it. He told Barnaby all his adventures, and those of his uncle and Bernard as well. The Yankee marvelled very much at all he heard.
“Of course you have a collection of curios, haven’t you?”
“Rather,” said Tom proudly.
“Then I guess we can deal.”
“I guess we can’t.” And Tom laughed.
“Will you sell the cat? Why, there’s a small fortune in that animile.”