Avery’s chest swelled as he suppressed an exclamation. “I promised not to laugh, Swickey, but I’m feared I’ll bust if I don’t do suthin’ else. ’Nother one! Andy Slocum? Jest wait a minute while I light up and smoke—it’ll come easier.”
He filled his pipe, lighted it, and puffed solemnly. “Go ahead, Swickey. I’m bracin’ up and waitin’.”
“You aren’t angry, are you, Pop?”
“Not the kind you mean. I ain’t mad at nobody in pa’tic’ler. Jest bilin’ inside like when a feller steps on a bar’l-hoop in the grass. No sense in gettin’ mad at the hoop, and no sense in gettin’ mad at hisself fur steppin’ on it—and no use gettin’ mad anyhow—but thet ain’t sayin’ he don’t get mad.”
Swickey continued hurriedly. “Andy used to come and see me at Miss Wilkins’s when he was not in the lumber-camp. I thought he just liked me the same as the other boys—”
“Other boys—ya-a-s,” said Avery, removing his pipe and spitting deliberately on the clean floor of the room, which unusual action proved his complete absorption in the subject.
“—Till he wrote me that letter and sent the ring—”
“Oh, he sent a ring, hey? Go ahead, Swickey, my insides is settlin’ down.”
“Of course I sent it back—Miss Wilkins said I ought to,”—Swickey sighed,—“and one Sunday he met me after church and walked home with me. That was the time when he said he wanted to marry me—and tried to kiss me. I was afraid of him at first, but I don’t think he will ever try to do that again.”
“Did you cuff him good?” said Avery.