“I don’t suppose you really have to.” He blinked watery eyes at Hiram’s big watch chain with its bunch of charms, and at the ring on his thick finger, with its blazing stone.
“Forty thousand or so in the bank and plenty more out at int’rest,” returned Hiram. He put both thumbs into the armholes of his vest. Then with the patronising air of the “well-fixed” he inquired:
“How are you gettin’ your three squares nowadays?”
“Lecture on Lost Arts and Free Love, mesmerise and cure stutterin’ in one secret lesson, pay in advance,” Peak explained listlessly. “But there ain’t the three squares in no such graft in these times. I ain’t got your head. I wish I’d been as sharp as you are and never let a woman whiffle me into a scrape.” Hiram glowed with the same warmth that he felt when “Figger-Four” daily regaled him with stories of how Myra Willard made life miserable for Kleber with her tongue and her folly. This gossip had been “Figger-Four’s” first recommendation to the notice of the showman, and Avery had sagaciously pursued it. Hiram now looked up at the man on the van with a pride that was gloomy, but none the less apparent.
“Nobody ever come it over me,” he said in low tones, with a side glance to see that Avery didn’t overhear. “Still, another way you look at it, she did come it over me and so did——” He suddenly checked himself.
“But she didn’t come it over you,” insisted Peak. “I’m the one she come it over, and look at me!” He made a despairing gesture that embraced all his pathetic belongings. “You’re the one that’s come out ‘unrivalled, stupendous and triumphant,’ as your full sheeters used to say. If I was any help in steerin’ her away I’m humbly glad of it, Hime, for I allus liked you.”
This gradual assuming of the rôle of benefactor was not entirely to Hiram’s taste, as his frown indicated, but the constant iteration of admiration for his shrewdness and good fortune was having its effect. The old grudge ached less. It was like having opodeldoc stuffed into a bad tooth. Hiram felt as though he would like to listen to a lot more of that comforting talk. Moreover, his showman’s heart was hungry for some of that association of the old days and for a chance to swap old stories.
“Sime,” he cried with a heartiness that surprised even himself, “you’re a poor old devil that’s been abused, and you seem to be all in.” He surveyed the wheezy horse and kicked another spoke from the wheel.
“Crack ’em down, crack ’em down, gents!” squalled the parrot.
“If it wasn’t for Absalom, there, to holler that to me with an occasional ‘Hey, Rube!’ I don’t believe I could stay in this God-forsaken place fifteen minutes. There’s no one here that can talk about anything except ensilage and new-milk cows. Now, what say, Sime? Store your old traps along o’ mine, squat down and take it comfortable a little while. I reckon that you and me can find a few things to talk about that really amount to something.”