“No.”
“I was goin’ to have a little meat.”
“Can’t stay.”
“It’s stormin’ putty hard.”
“I don’t care!” He moved toward the door.
Uncle William took down an oil-skin coat from its peg. “You better put this on if ye can’t stay. No use in gettin’ wet through.”
Andy put it on and buttoned it up in fierce silence.
Uncle William watched him benignly. “If ’t was so ’s ’t you could stay, we could play another after dinner—play the rubber. You beat me last time, you know.” He took off the stove-lid and peered in.
Andy’s eye had relaxed a little under its gloom. “When you goin’ to have dinner?” he asked.
“I was thinkin’ of havin’ it putty soon. I can have it right off if you’ll stay—must be ’most time.” He pulled a great watch from its fob pocket and looked at it with absent eye. His gaze deepened. He looked up slowly. Then he smiled—a cheerful smile that took in Andy, the board with its scattered checkers, Juno on the lounge, and the whole red room.