Trench glanced at him and saw that he had been drinking. He was a lean, lank boy of nineteen, with a weak face that gave evidence of a weaker brain, and he bore a strong resemblance to his half-sister; he was accounted almost an idiot by the gossips of Eshcol, and was always in trouble, but, as he was the only grandson of a poor old woman, he escaped his deserts.
“What do you want now, Zeb?� Trench asked dryly, turning back to his papers; he was still studying law with a zeal that was later to bear fruit in the case that divided Eshcol.
“I want two dollahs,� Zeb said with a whine. “I haven’t had any work fer a week, an’ Jean’s starvin’ agin. Gimme two dollahs, Mr. Trench, an’ I’ll return it with—with interes’ on Saturday night, sho’,� he said, triumphing at the end, and pulling off his soft felt hat to rub his head helplessly.
“Not two cents,� said Caleb; “you’d get drunk.�
“I sure won’t!� protested Zeb, his mouth drooping and his hands falling weakly at his sides, as if he had suddenly lost the starch necessary to keep his lines crisp. “I ain’t seen liquor fer a month.�
“What have you been drinking then?� Trench asked, with the ghost of a smile.
“Water,� said Zeb, rallying, “water—ef it warn’t fer that I’d be dry ez punk. ’Deed, Mr. Trench, I needs money. Jean’s mighty sick.�
“No, she isn’t,� said Caleb. “I spoke to her at the market this morning.�
Zeb’s mouth opened again, like a stranded fish, and he stared; but he wanted the money. “She wuz took sick after that,� he explained, brightening, “she asked me ter git it. Gimme er dollah, Mr. Trench.�
“No,� said Caleb.