CHAPTER IX.
JOE’S MESSAGE.
After breakfast the following morning, Elizabeth was summoned to the reception-hall where Joe Ratowsky awaited her. He stood twisting his hat about as she entered. The expansive smile which covered his swarthy face was not so much one of goodwill as embarrassment. He stood in the center of the room so that by no possible chance could he touch any article of furniture. Joe was no coward. He had performed heroic parts when mobs of miners and the militia, during the big strikes, met in conflict. But the thought of sitting down on chairs upholstered in satin of dainty colors made the cold chills run up and down his spine.
It was cruel in Elizabeth to shake his hand so long and so vigorously, even though she was glad to see him. And it was worse than cruel to keep pushing easy chairs before him and insisting upon him sitting down. Elizabeth insisted, and in desperation Joe took a letter from his pocket and thrust it before her.
“Mees-ter Hobart, he write—he write heap—b’gosh.”
“He isn’t sick, Joe, is he?”
“Sick!” Joe grunted his disgust at the thought of anyone being sick. “He well, so well—he get fat, b’gosh, so fat, Meester O’Day, he look like pole he come long Meester Hobart, b’gosh.”
Joe nodded his head vigorously, a habit he had of emphasizing any statement he wished to make particularly strong. Elizabeth could not restrain a smile at the comparison.
“Is mother well, too, Joe?” Joe nodded vigorously while he wiped his brow.