Mending the pots and pans as ordered,
But leaving the leak in his nob unsoldered.
—From “Ballads of the Wayfarers.”
Hiram was on the porch in his favourite attitude, his chair tipped against the wall, his tall hat on the back of his head, his thumb hooked into the armhole of his vest. He rolled his cigar across his tongue and looked at his brother with a sidewise, suspicious glance as the Squire sat down on the edge of the platform. The lawyer remembered suddenly that he had seen that look on Hiram’s face frequently of late. It was the wary expression of a man who feared that he might be called on to defend himself.
“I thought I’d run up to the house and sit down for a spell, Hime. The loafers down there get on my nerves once in a while.”
The Squire noted the instant relief on Hiram’s face. The cigar rolled back to the other corner of his mouth and perked itself with new assurance.
“I don’t blame you, Phin. That’s why I keep away from Brickett’s. I can jaw ’em off the premises, here, when they get to bothering me.”
The old woman whom Hiram had insisted on adding to the household as maid of all work snapped her dishcloth at the ell window and began chatting with “Figger-Four” Avery, who was varnishing one of the vans. Avery sat down on the cart tongue and gave her his full attention.
“Avery is a fair sample of ’em,” continued Hiram, jerking his head to indicate his servitor. “There ought to be only three days in the week for fellers like him and the rest round here—a rainy day, Sunday and pay-day.”
“It wears on a man like Avery to get up before breakfast and work between meals,” observed the Squire, drily.