He took Peak by the arm and drew him away with some eagerness.
“I want you to come in and see if Imogene remembers you, Sime. Then we’ll look over the carts.”
Avery had been crowding up closely, mutely appealing for an introduction. His jealousy was aroused by the attention that was shown to this new arrival, and he followed them toward the barn as they started away.
“Say, look-a-here, Figger-Four,” said Hiram, whirling on him and speaking with a gruffness that wounded Avery’s devoted heart, “you get back onto your job, there, and you mind it dern close from this time on. I don’t want you trailin’ me no more. You keep your place after this.”
The cripple stood gazing after Hiram until he had slammed the barn door behind him. Then he settled slowly down upon his short leg and turned to the Squire a face on which there was astonishment as well as grief.
“Seems like I never seen a changeabler man,” he observed.
The lawyer looked at the discarded companion a little while, and the poor fellow’s distress was so sincere that he pitied him, even in his own sorrow.
“Don’t mind it too much, Avery,” he said. “Hiram has had a good many things happen in his life to sour him and spoil his disposition. Some day he’ll find out who his real friends are and then you and I will have our innings.”
He put his hands behind his back and walked into the house, and Avery went on with his varnishing. At first his strokes were slow and his face was melancholy. But as he pondered on his insult, his brush flicked faster and soon he was slapping away at a lively gait, keeping time to a song that he hummed, the last two lines running:
“Good boy Phin, he don’t raise time,