“Good!” cried the Prodigal Son, his face transfigured. “She remembered my passion for veal sausages!”
“ ‘And there’s pickled walnuts too! Put them out likewise,’ says Oi, ‘for ’tis a poor heart that never rejoices.’ ”
“But that’s your passion, not mine.”
“That’s what mother said. ‘But baint Oi to get no compensation?’ says Oi. And why dedn’t you write to her all these years, Willie?”
His face darkened again. “I’m no great shakes with a quill. And there wasn’t anything to say. I did write once to tell you I was safe across the Atlantic and was gone to make my fortune.”
“We dedn’t never get no letter.”
“No—it came back months after. I forgot to put England on it, thinking maybe Essex was enough. But it seems there’s a Mount Essex in the States, down Wyoming way, and the Yanks always think everything is for them. So I thought I’d best let things be, being on the go in those days.”
Caleb fully sympathized with the plea. “And have ye made your fortune, Will?” he inquired meekly.
“That depends on your idea of a fortune,” Will parried. But he had a complacent consciousness of those bank-notes behind the glove.
“My idea of a fortune be faith in God,” said Caleb.