“Can I eat chowder?” The tone was dubious, but meek.
“You’ve got all your teeth, hain’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, I guess you can eat it.”
“I haven’t been eating much.”
“I shouldn’t think you had.” Uncle William spoke dryly. “You needn’t be a mite afraid o’ one o’ my chowders. A baby could eat ’em, if it had got its teeth.”
The artist ate the chowder, when it came, and called for more, but Uncle William refused him sternly. “You jest wait awhile,” he said, bearing away the empty plate. “There ain’t more’n enough for a comfortable dish for me. You don’t want to eat it all, do you?”
“No,” said the artist, flushing.
“I thought not.” It took Uncle William a long time to eat his portion, and the artist fell asleep again, watching the rhythmic motion of the great jaw as it went slowly back and forth.
When he wakened again it was almost dark in the room. Uncle William sat by the window, looking down into the street. He came across to the bed as the artist stirred. “You’ve had a good long sleep.” He laid a hand on the moist forehead. “That’s good. Fever’s gone.”