“He acts sort of blue, to me,” declared Issy, speaking from the depths of sensational-novel knowledge. “If he was a younger man I'd say he was most likely in love. Ah, hum! I s'pose bein' in love does get a feller mournful, don't it?”
Issy made this declaration to his mother only. He knew better than to mention sentiment to male acquaintances. The latter were altogether too likely to ask embarrassing questions.
Mr. Wingate and Captain Stitt were still in town, although their stay was drawing to a close. One afternoon they entered the station together. Captain Sol seemed glad to see them.
“Set down, fellers,” he ordered. “I swan I'm glad to see you. I ain't fit company for myself these days.”
“Ain't Betsy Higgins feedin' you up to the mark?” asked Stitt. “Or is house movin' gettin' on your vitals?”
“No,” growled the depot master, “grub's all right and so's movin', I cal'late. I'm glad you fellers come in. What's the news to Orham, Barzilla? How's the Old Home House boarders standin' it? Hear from Jonadab regular, do you?”
Mr. Wingate laughed. “Nothin' much,” he said. “Jonadab's too busy to write these days. Bein' a sport interferes with letter writing consider'ble.”
“Sport!” exclaimed Captain Bailey. “Land of Goshen! Cap'n Jonadab is the last one I'd call a sport.”
“That's 'cause you ain't a good judge of human nature, Bailey,” chuckled Barzilla. “When ancient plants like Jonadab Wixon DO bloom, they're gay old blossoms, I tell you!”
“What do you mean?” asked the depot master.