“We-all may be gone days, father,” she had said, “and yo’ certainly do drop in owdacious places when you’re drunk. Yo’ might freeze or starve. Agin, a lurking beast, hunting fo’ food, might chaw yo’ fo’ yo’ got yo’ senses.”
Something of this Greyson explained to his guest while setting forth the evening meal and apologizing for the lack of stimulant.
“Being her marriage trip I let Marg have her way and a mind free o’ worry ’bout me. But women don’t understand, God bless ’em! What’s a drop in yo’ own home? But fo’ she started forth Marg spilled every jug onto the wood pile. When I see the flames extry sparkling I know the reason!”
Greyson chuckled, walking to and fro from table to pantry, with steady, almost dignified strides.
“That’s all right,” Truedale hastened to say, “I’m rather inclined to agree with your daughter; and—” raising the concoction Peter had evolved—“this tea—”
“Coffee, sir.”
“Excuse me! This coffee goes right to the spot.”
They ate and grew confidential. Edging close, but keeping under cover, Truedale gained the confidence of the lonely, broken man and, late in the evening, the hideous truth, as Truedale was compelled to believe, was in his keeping.
For an hour Greyson had been nodding and dozing; then, apologetically, rousing. Truedale once suggested bed, but for some unexplainable reason Peter shrank from leaving his guest. Then, risking a great deal, Truedale asked nonchalantly:
“Have you other children besides this daughter who is on her wedding trip? It’s rather hard—leaving you alone to shift for yourself.”