“Some of it,” said William.
Andy moved a little farther away. He was very near the edge of the bench.
Uncle William moved over by him, and laid a hand on his knee. “I was goin’ to ask you to lend me a hunderd, Andy.”
Andy wriggled a little. “You don’t hev to go,” he said feebly.
“If he needs me, I’ll have to. I ain’t ever been needed much—livin’ alone so. You don’t know how ’t is. You have somebody to need you. Harriet needs you—”
“Lord, yes, Harr’et needs me. Don’t doubt she needs me this minute—pail o’ water or suthin’.” Andrew chuckled gloomily.
“And you hev your chickens, too.” Uncle William fixed his glance placidly on a strutting fowl that had appeared around the corner, cocking a surprised eye at them. William regarded her thoughtfully. “When a man’s alone, there ain’t much he can do for folks,” he said slowly, “except feed Juno night and mornin’,—and she catches so many mice it ain’t really wuth while. Now a hen needs to be fed.”
“Guess they do,” grumbled Andy.
“And a cow,” went on Uncle William, “but there—” he checked himself. “What am I talkin’ about? How’d I ever keep a cow? What’d I do with the milk? I couldn’t eat a whole cowful.” He sat gazing with far-off eyes at the glimpse of blue water.
Andy chewed scornfully on a bit of dry grass.