Peak, his slippered feet resting on the rail of the Franklin stove, surveyed the shoulders and the back of Hiram’s head with scowling disapproval.
“Some might think you relished chances to throw away money,” he growled, with a freedom of criticism accorded the favourite. Simon now appeared to be settled as a fixture in the showman’s household. The old horse Joachim had died with the first frosts, and the battered van lurched under one of the poplars, exposed to the beating of the elements.
“What bills do you think Imogene incurred on that trip—now, jest for a guess?” demanded Hiram, in high good humour. “I’ve been figgerin’ it for fun.”
“It reely must be a good deal like a joke book,” observed Peak, with fine satire.
“I can set and pee-ruse them figgers,” said Hiram, slapping the little book on his knee and chuckling afresh, “and think how Imogene must have looked passin’ through them way stations, as you might say, and then think how them farmers and old maids and women-folks run and squawked and hollered, and I get fuller of tickles inside than a settin’ hen is full of clucks. The trouble with you is, Sime, you ain’t got no humour.”
“Well, I’ve had mostly troubles in my time, and I ain’t got no forty thousand dollars in the bank, either,” said Peak, sourly.
“Say, you’ve been twittin’ me about that forty thousand a good deal lately,” snorted Hiram, glaring around over the back of the rocking-chair. “You ain’t begretchin’ me my own, be ye?”
“Ev’ry man’s welcome to all he’s got, for all o’ me. I ain’t ever had nothin’. I don’t ever expect to have anything. But I tell ye, a man don’t gain in the long run by slingin’ his money around too permiscuous.”
Hiram whirled in his chair and put his little book into his pocket.
“For more’n a fortnit now, Sime, you’ve been slurrin’ more or less. You’ve got some kind of a duflicker’s egg that you’re settin’ on. Now come off’n the nest and if you’ve got any cacklin’ to do, out with it so that I can join in!”