“Winter and summer!” Leander put in, “if you're satisfied. There's nobody in a hurry to see the last of ye.”
Uncle John's mild but determined resistance was a keen disappointment to his friends. Leander thought himself offended. “What fly's stung you, anyhow! Heard from any of your folks lately?”
The old man smiled.
“Got any money salted down that needs turning?”
“Looander! Quit teasing of him!”
“Let him have his fun, ma'am. It's all he's likely to get out of me. I have got a little money,” he pursued. “'T would be an insult to name it in the same breath with what you've done for me. I'd like to leave it here, though. You could pass it on. You'll have chances enough. 'T ain't likely I'll be the last one you'll take in and do for, and never git nothing out of it in return.”
There was a mild sensation, as the speaker, fumbling in his loose trousers, appeared to be seeking for that money. Aunt Polly's eyes flamed indignation behind her tears. She was a foolish, warm-hearted creature, and her eyes watered on the least excuse.
“Looander, you shouldn't have taunted him,” she admonished her husband, who felt he had been a little rough.
“Look here, Uncle John, d'you ever know anybody who wasn't by way of needing help some time in their lives? We don't ask any one who comes here”—
“He didn't come!” Aunt Polly corrected.