“There’s a kind of exhibit goin’ on.” Uncle William consulted the letter. “‘The Exhibition of American Artists’—suthin’ like a fair, I take it. And he’s goin’ to send ’em.”
“Thinks he’ll take a prize, I s’pose.” Andy’s tone held fine scepticism.
“Well, I dunno. He don’t say nuthin’ about a prize. He does kind o’ hint that he’ll be sendin’ me suthin’ pretty soon. I guess likely there’ll be prizes. He o’t to take one if there is. He made fust-rate picters, fust-rate—”
“The whole lot wa’n’t wuth the Jennie.” Andy spoke with sharp jealousy.
“Well, mebbe not—mebbe not. Want a game of checkers, Andy?”
“I don’t care,” sullenly. Uncle William brought out the board and arranged the pieces with stiff fingers.
Andy watched the movements, his eye callous to pleasure.
“It’s your move, Andy.”
Andy drew up to the table and reached out a hand. . . . The spirit of the game descended upon him. He pushed forward a man with quick fingers. “Go ahead.”
Uncle William took time. His fingers hovered here and there in loving calculation. At last he lifted the piece and moved it slowly forward.