The older man shrugged his shoulders a little—a quick shrug. He pushed forward a chair with his foot. “Sit down. Your father dead?” quickly.
“No, sir. But—father is—father.” He said it with a little smile. “She’s never had anybody but me,” he went on quickly. “She’s been sick ever since I was a little thing, and I’ve taken care of her. It frets her to have a woman around. She does n’t wash the dishes clean, and her cooking is n’t really very good.” He was smiling a little as he said it.
The man shot a quick look at him. “You ’re going home to wash dishes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Um-m.” The fingers played a little tune on the desk. “I ’ll raise you twenty-five a month. Get a better nurse.”
The boy shook his head. “I ’m afraid it would n’t do.” He was hesitating. “I think she misses me.”
“Umph! Very likely!” The man glanced at him over quick spectacles. “What ’s the matter with her? Sit down.” He touched the chair again with his foot.
The young man sat down. “We don’t know what it is. She cannot walk—cannot stand—a good deal of the time—and sometimes she suffers. But it is a kind of nervousness that is hardest to bear. She cannot lie quiet. Something seems to drive her.”
The man nodded. His fingers opened and closed. “What else?” he said brusquely.
“That ’s all—except that it quiets her to have me around. I can get work in Bridgewater and do the housework nights and mornings.”