So I sat down beside him and waited patiently, eyeing the while rather sadly the old home where I had once been so happy.
It seemed not to have changed in any way since I left it. The blinds of my little room in the attic were closed, but those of the lower floor were thrown back, and a column of thin smoke ascended lazily from the chimney, showing that the place was still inhabited.
In spite of myself I shivered. The autumn air struck me as being chilly for the first time, and the declining sun moved slowly behind a cloud, throwing the same gloom over the landscape that was already in my heart.
“Are you ready, Uncle?” I asked, unable to bear the suspense longer.
“Jest a minute, Sam. Let’s see; the opening shot was this way: There’s folks, ma’am, that can be more heartless than the brute beasts, more slyer than a roarin’ tiger, more fiercer than a yellow fox, an’—”
“That isn’t right, Uncle Naboth,” I interrupted. “The fox is sly and the tiger—”
“I know, I know. Them speeches is gettin’ sorter mixed in my mind; but if that she-devil don’t quail when she hears ’em, my name ain’t Naboth Perkins! Perhaps I ought to have committed ’em more to memory—eh, Sam? What do you say to waitin’ till tomorrow?”
“No, Uncle. Let’s go to her now. You can reserve your vials of wrath, if you want to; but I shan’t sleep a wink unless I pay Mrs. Ranck that money.”
“All right,” said the old man, with assumed cheerfulness. “There’s no time like the present. ‘Never put off ’til tomorrer,’ you know. Come along, my lad!”
He sprang up and led the way with alacrity for a few steps, and then slackened his pace perceptibly.