Monday.
This morning, after a brief reign, bows and spikes went out, and "stilks" came in. Geordie, who now has the stable-job, had a number of superior dogwood limbs laid away under the gear-room, ready to be sold. Looking back, I realize that, with the exception of the old stand-by, shinny, not a single game has come in during the term without his connivance. Indeed, the born trader's ability in supplying a demand is exceeded only by his genius in creating it.
Every day Nucky goes down to see Blant, always returning sad, thoughtful and troubled. "'Pears like he haint able to take no more interest in nothing, now Rich is gone," he said to me last night; "when he talks he don't say nothing but 'I have killed the friend of my bosom,—my heart is broke,—I can't stand to live no longer.'"
Wednesday.
I stopped the mail-boy again to-day, for news of the Marrs family. "Things is going mighty bad," he said. "The babe is pindling scandlous, and its paw is wore to a frazzle tending it of nights, and cooking, and troubling in his mind. Minervy Saxby allows if Blant don't git back to that 'ere babe, it'll purely pine to death."
Nucky came out as we talked, and heard the boy's account. He said to me immediately, "I want to go home Friday."
"You are not strong enough for the walk," I said.
"I've got to go," he declared.
Saturday Night.
Nucky went home yesterday; and shortly after noon to-day I was surprised to see him ride down the road in front of the cottage, with a small bundle held on one arm. I called to him in surprise, and he halted. "It's the babe,—I brung it to see Blant," he said.