“No,” replied Bascomb, leaning back against the side of the cabin. “This is feathers for me after that tramp to-day. I’ll loaf here awhile.”
“Thet’s right. You kin keep Swickey comp’ny.” Avery arose and stretched himself. “I’m gettin’ a mite stiff settin’ here.”
As the old man strode toward the light of David’s doorway, Bascomb called to Swickey.
“Did you hear that?”
“About Pop getting stiff in the night air?”
“Of course. I don’t need night air to make me stiff, though. I bear the loving marks of the trail all over me. Won’t you come out and ease my departing spirit with a little friendly conversation?”
“If you’ll promise not to be silly like you were to-day.” She stepped softly to the door and peered at Bascomb.
“I’ll promise.”
She came out and sat on the edge of the porch, her back against one of the posts.
“That’s it,” said Bascomb. “‘Just as you are,’ as the picture-man says. Your profile against the summer night sky is—There, you’ve spoiled it! Please turn your head again. Diana and the moon—”