The family never mistrusted what wuz a goin’ on. Lots of times to the table, or anywhere, when the subject came round anywhere nigh to that that wuz uppermost in his brain, he would give me a wink, or step on my foot under the table.
“I AM NEEDED THERE.”
They never noticed the wink, and their feet didn’t feel the crunch of his boot toe—no, I bore it in silence and alone.
For how could they see the tall mountain peaks of ambition that loomed up in front of that peaceful, bald-headed man—precipitous mounts that he wuz in fancy scalin’, with the eyes of a admirin’ world lookin’ up to him?
No; how little can them a settin’ with us round the same table see the scenes that is passin’ before the mental vision of each. No, they can’t do it; the human breast hain’t made with a winder in it, or even a swing door.
No; I alone knew what wuz a passin’ and a goin’ on in that beloved breast.
To me, as he always had, he revealed the high bubbles he wuz a throwin’ up over his head, and had always throwed ever and anon, and even oftener, bubbles wrought out of the foamin’ suds of hope and ambition, and propelled upwards out of the long-stailed pipe of his fancy, floated by the gusty wind of his vain efforts.
And it wuz to me he turned for comfort and solace when them bubbles bust over his head in a damp drizzle (metafor).
But to resoom and continue on.