“Charlie Pickett! An’ w’at in the name o’ the seven wise men an’ their jigger-books be ye a doin’ here?”
“I came to get my boy, Gabriel. I looked in at the window and saw that he was content, and his grandfather happy, and I hadn’t the heart to disturb their comfort and peace. So I am going again. They will not know that I ever came. It is our secret, Gabriel. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand; but look here! That ain’t fair, you know. You’re his father. You’ve got the fust right.”
“True, but I’m not demanding it. Don’t tempt me. My mind is made up. Let me go now before I falter. Good night and good luck to you, Gabriel!”
He reached out his hand, and Gabriel took it with a tremendous grasp.
“The genuine Pickett grit!” he exclaimed. “You’re a chip o’ the old block, after all. So’s the boy. Wher’s your hoss? What! Didn’t hev any? Walked up? Well, I’ll be—say, you’ll do! You’re Pickett to the backbone! So’s the boy. Consarn ye, both o’ ye. Blame the hull three o’ ye! You’re a set o’ the contrariest, pig-headedest, big-heartedest human bein’s ’at the Lord ever let tromp on his foot-stool!”
It was evident that Gabriel’s feelings were getting the best of him, for his voice was very husky as he continued:—
“Good night! Ef ever you want anything done around these parts, you let me know. I’m it when you speak. Don’t forgit!”
“Thank you, Gabriel! Thank you a thousand times. Good night!”