The artist mused. “It would seem good.”
The old man had paused in his work. “Will you go—to-morrow?”
The artist looked about him, hesitating. “I couldn’t get ready—”
“I’ll get ye ready.”
“We might—in a week?”
“I can’t wait,” said Uncle William, decisively. “I’ve got to look up Juno. She’ll like enough get desperate—drown herself the first thing I know. I’m goin’ to start to-morrow. If you want to go along, I’ll pack ye up.”
The young man looked at him helplessly. “I can’t get along without you. You know I need you.”
“Yes, I know you need me,” said Uncle William. “I kind o’ counted on that.” He began to pack vigorously, emerging now and then out of the dust and clatter to beam on the young man. “Now, don’t you worry a mite. You’re goin’ to get well and earn money and come back and pay her, and everything’s comin’ out all right.”
In the afternoon tickets arrived from Sergia. There was a line with them, asking Uncle William to call for her, at eight, that evening. The artist looked at the tickets a little enviously. “I should like to go, myself,” he said. “It’s the first view.” He glanced at Uncle William appealingly.
The old man ignored it. “You couldn’t go, noways,” he said; “not if we’re goin’ to start to-morrow.”