“No; we must get rid of him some way. I must say it was a very cool proceeding to come here without an invitation, expecting us to support him.”
This was a gratuitous assumption on the part of Mrs. Ross.
“I suppose he’s very poor. He doesn’t look as if he had a cent. I presume he is destitute, and expects us to take care of him.”
“You’d better send him packing, mother.”
“I suppose we shall have to do something for him,” said Mrs. Ross, in a tone of disgust. “I shall advise your father to buy a ticket for him, and send him back to Illinois.”
“That’ll be the best way, mother. Start him off to-morrow, if you can.”
“I won’t keep him long, you may be sure of that.”
By this time Colonel Ross had reached home, and his wife communicated to him the unwelcome intelligence of Uncle Obed’s arrival, and advised him as to the course she thought best to pursue.
“Poor old man!” said the colonel, with more consideration than his wife or son possessed. “I suppose he felt solitary out there.”
“That isn’t our lookout,” said Mrs. Ross, impatiently. “It’s right enough to say poor old man. He looks as poor as poverty. He’ll be better off in Illinois.”