"Pioneer times, pioneer times," said the colonel, hastily. "Er—um—the ice to Mr. Johns, Sam."
"When Mirandy's pa useter came home loaded," pursued the old woman, unmoved, "many's the time I've shet him in th' woodshed, him hollerin' bloody murder—'Let him holler!' says I. Time mornin' come I'd git him under th' pump—oh my, yes, I've had lots of experience."
"Pioneer times," said Colonel Pallinder again desperately. (But J. B. did take the bottle away from Teddy's neighbourhood.) "Pioneer days! Good God, gentlemen, when I think of what men and women had to contend with then, I'm ashamed, yes, ashamed of the luxuries we live in. You were saying, Doctor——"
"About—ahem—oh—ah—yes, about Huddesley," said the doctor, who had not been saying anything. "I can't always make the fellow out—I'm rather puzzled——"
"Speakin' o' puzzles," said old Mrs. Botlisch, "I was goin' to tell ye that one 'bout th' English feller that the guide was takin' 'roun' Niagry Falls. After they had gone down under th' Falls, an' out to Goat Island, and everywheres else, ye know, he took an' wrote in th' visitors' book, 'Why am I like Desdemona?' (That's the white girl that goes off with a nigger in th' play, ye know). He wrote just that: 'Why am I like Desdemona?' Th' answer is: 'Becuz——'"
This time, in spite of an outburst of coughing that threatened serious results to Doctor Vardaman, in spite of a fusillade of loud irrelevant talk from the colonel, in spite even of Teddy Johns' quite unintentionally falling over a chair, this time, I say, we all heard the answer!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Not long since I had a visit from Gwynne Peters' oldest boy. The little fellow is twelve, and, as I abstained from any embarrassing and inconvenient demonstrations of affection or even friendship, we became quite intimate, and I believe he enjoyed himself after a fashion. He is not like his father, neither so delicate in body, nor so gentle and winning as I remember the elder Gwynne—but, in truth, I do not know if I ever found the way to his heart, with all my diplomacy; the unconquerable barrier of age divided us; childhood looks with so solidly-rooted a suspicion on our efforts to approach it; it guards its quaint jungles, its enchanted gardens with so jealous a care that we may well despair of ever touching hands. And for that matter I sometimes think we are all strangers more or less to the end, and our nearest intimacy only a painful interchange of signals in a fog. Little Gwynne tolerated me, and I soon ceased to ask anything else. He approved of cookies and the works of Mr. Alger; as these latter immortal productions do not form a part of my library, we were obliged to call upon the Carnegie one a few squares distant, whence he requisitioned them at the rate of a new Alger volume about every twenty-four hours until the supply was exhausted, when we began on Mr. Henty. This fell out very luckily, as I had discovered him asleep in a corner over "Ivanhoe," and I should not have wished him to carry away so unfavourable an impression of my resources in the way of entertainment. But what I most observed in him was an indifference to, or ignorance of, his family history and traditions that seemed abnormal in a Gwynne, however remotely descended. I asked him if he had ever been to see his great-grandfather's portrait in the State-House? The moment was ill-chosen, as he was profoundly occupied with a new variety of top, but he absently answered: "Yep."