Hiram turned from the window and gave his friend and confidant a long and searching stare.
“Peak,” said he, “sometimes when you talk to me I think you’re in with the rest a-tryin’ to do me.”
Simon surveyed him with eyes mutely expostulating.
“Other times I think you are a dummed fool. You can take your pick. Now I am goin’ out to associate with some one that ain’t tryin’ to pick my pocket the whole dog-blessed time nor spreadin’ on hair-oil talk when it ain’t called for.”
He trudged out to the barn where Imogene was spending the winter in dignified ease, occupying a corner of the building that had been sheathed and boarded for her comfort. Here “Figger-Four” Avery tended a little air-tight stove, relegated to the post of menial.
Hiram sat in silent communion with Imogene until the dusk came down. Once in a while he fed to her a lump of candy. Each time she curved down her trunk he poked a thick finger against it roguishly.
“I’ll bet ye know who sent ’em to ye—now, don’t ye?” he would chuckle, when Imogene gazed down on him with amiable blinkings.