“It’s cur’us, ain’t it,” said Uncle William, “Now, I suppose you’ve got a family—a wife, like enough, and children—”
The young man’s hand sought an inside pocket, as if by instinct. Then it dropped to his side.
Uncle William smiled and chuckled a little. “Now, I never thought you ’d have pictures of ’em with you. But why shouldn’t yet Why shouldn’t a fish-warden hev pictures of his wife and babies, same as other folks?” He had turned to Andy, and sat, with spectacles pushed up on his forehead, looking at him inquiringly.
“I do’ ’no’ why he shouldn’t,” said Andy feebly—but not as if convinced.
“Of course you ’d have ’em,” said Uncle William, turning ’to the young man, “And I like you all the better for it. I’d taken a liking to you anyhow—before that.”
The face opposite him was non-committal. But there was a look of firmness about the chin.
“I’d like to see ’em,” said Uncle William, “if you wouldn’t mind my seein’ ’em.” The tone was full of interest and kindly hope.
The young man took out a small leather case and handed it to him, without speaking.
Uncle William received it in his big, careful fingers, and adjusted his glasses before he bent to it.
Andy sat silent, with grudging, watchful eye, and the young man let his glance wander about the room. Juno, seated in the sunshine, blinked a little. Then she rose and moved toward the cupboard door and snuffed the crack. She seated herself beside it, turning a reproachful, indifferent eye in Uncle William’s direction.