“What do I think of it?” roared old Coble, and rushing to the window he grabbed the old, inaccurate shark, tore it savagely in two, snatched the new picture from the hands of the astonished Matt, filled up the vacancy with it, dashed outside to survey it from the sidewalk, and reappearing at the door, bellowed, “Step this way, young man,” and stamped three times on the threshold.
Over the old rye he reported to the artist that he had found his Rosie more placable than usual; that she was even willing to listen to the young man’s plea, though she seemed to want to hear it from his own mouth before deciding. Matt gladly consented to sup that evening with the mountain and his daughter. Free drinks never surprised him, but a free square meal was like having larks flying into one’s mouth ready roasted.
It was the happiest evening he had spent for many a long day. There was a spotless cloth on the round table, and the food was good, if solid. Miss Coble made herself agreeable, and if she was not so pretty as her father saw her, her plump cheek was sufficiently rosy and her figure sufficiently comely and her frock sufficiently nice to be grateful to the eye of an artist and a young man just emerged from prison society, and starving for the amenities of life. Her light-blue eyes lit up pleasantly when he addressed her, or when she helped him to more griddle-cakes. Some stuffed birds over a low bookcase that contained a few brightly bound volumes reminded him pleasurably of past miseries. The stentorian voice of old Coble almost monopolized the conversation. He had much to say that was not worth listening to—on the bad crops of the year before last, the scarcity of helps, and the failure of the colony to go ahead, which was apparently connected with the uncleanliness of the inhabitants, as manifest from the small sales of bath-sponges. After dinner the mountain smoked, and after smoking the volcano slept.
“I’m afraid you think pa’s got a bad temper,” said Miss Coble, abruptly. She had hastily cleared away the supper dishes, and had seated herself, half recumbent amid a litter of sewing, upon a couch opposite the easy-chair which Matt now occupied. The young man instinctively glanced towards her trumpeting parent.
“Oh, he’s sound enough; can’t you hear?” she said, laughing gayly. “I only hope he doesn’t disturb you. I’m used to it.”
“I only hope I sha’n’t disturb him,” answered Matt.
“I guess he’s making more noise than us,” laughed Miss Coble. “He can’t even be quiet when he’s asleep. I was going to explain to you that he can’t help it; there’s something wrong with his throat. It happened when his voice broke in his boyhood, and it always sounds as if he was angry—it always frightens off strangers, but he is really the best-tempered papa in the township.”
Matt smiled. “I did think he was rather a fire-eater at first,” he admitted. “But I’ve found him real jolly, and couldn’t quite make it out all this time.” He continued to smile at the drollness of Coble’s disability, and the girl’s eyes met his in an answering gleam of merriment.
“Pa says you’re a powerful painter, Mr. Strang,” she said after a silence, filled up by ruttling sounds from pa’s larynx.
“Oh, your pa’s only seen a rough thing I did for him,” he protested, diffidently.