“I’m glad to see you, Gabriel,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get a chance to speak to you ever since you’ve been here. I’ve been wanting to ask you about Dannie, and about Father, and Aunt Martha, and yourself, and about the old place. It’s been a hard day for me, Gabriel.”
“The’ ain’t no doubt o’ that, Char—Mr. Pickett, I mean.”
“No, not Mr. Pickett. I’m always Charlie to you, you know. We’ve worked and tramped and hunted and fished together too often for any formality of that kind, Gabriel. But I am glad to see you. Here, sit down. Tell me about Dannie. I’ve just given him up to Father. I had a right to take him, Gabriel; I wanted to take him; but I knew it would break Father’s heart, and I couldn’t do that, I couldn’t do it.”
“Well,” replied Gabriel, slowly, “I ain’t got nothin’ to say aginst Abner Pickett. He’s treated me like a white man fer eighteen year an’ up’ards; but ef I had a son like you, an’ a gran’son like Dannie Pickett, I’ll be everlastin’ly gee-hawed ef I wouldn’t git down off’n my high hoss once’t in a w’ile, say once’t in a year to start on, an’ treat ’em both like human bein’s. Not to say but w’at he’s good to Dannie. W’y good ain’t no name fer it. They ain’t nothin’ he wouldn’t do fer that boy, nothin’—excep’ to let ’im hev the benefit uv a father.”
“And is Dannie equally fond of him?”
“Sure. They’re jes’ like twins, them two is. W’enever an’ w’erever you see one uv ’em, you’re jes’ nat’ally bound to see t’other.”
“So Aunt Martha has written me; and I’m glad of that, Gabriel. It is the only thing that reconciles me to his loss. But does he never think about his father? Does he never ask for him? Does he never want him? Tell me that, Gabriel.”
“Well, he ain’t never asked ’is gran’father about ye more’n once, I reckon. I heard ’im ask once. An’ the way—well, never mind that. Ez ol’ Isra’l Pidgin use to say: ‘You can’t close up a crack by hammerin’ a wedge in it.’ But ef he’s asked me about ye once’t, he’s asked a hunderd times. He’ll come on ye sudden like, w’en ye ain’t expectin’ it, an’ fire away till you don’t know wuther you’re standin’ on your head or your feet. He come onto me once’t that way las’ fall in the potater patch. ‘Gabriel,’ says ’e, ‘w’at did my father go away fer?’ sez ’e. Well, now, I could ’a’ told ’im, an’ I couldn’t ’a’ told ’im, an’ I didn’t do nary one. ‘Did he an’ Gran’pap hev a quarrel?’ sez ’e. An’ bless my soul ef I knew w’at to say. I couldn’t go to fillin’ of ’im up with stuff about ’is gran’pap; an’ I hadn’t no warrant to do it, anyhow. I didn’t hear ye quarrel. ‘Don’t never tell fer a fact w’at ye ain’t willin’ to swear to,’ ez ol’ Isra’l Pidgin use to say. But I kin tell ye this, that ef they’s one thing in this world ’at that boy wants to hear about, an’ to talk about, an’ to hev about, it’s his father.”
“Thank you, Gabriel. Thank you a thousand times for telling me that.”
“Yes, an’ the most surprisin’ thing about it all is, w’at a lot of blamed ignoramuses we all be w’en he asks any of us anything about ye.”