But my father did not speak; it really seemed a punishment to him to have to open his lips.
The hearty man grew impatient with him.
"Come now, John," he said at last, "you and me has known each other a many years now, and you're a silent man, you are. But I'm in a particular hurry this morning, so if your tongue can be got to speak anyways, by any extra screw up, or by any means whatsoever, as you may be accustomed to use on them rare occasions when it does do you a service, please to let a fellow know what your intentions in this same matter may be."
To which my father answered in the few words, "When shall he come?"
"Well, now," said the hearty man, "we're getting to the point, we are; let him come on Monday!"
To which my father answered by a mournful shake of the head, and the one word "Clothes."
"Oh, never bother your head about clothes," said the man, "he'll do well enough. We'll rig him up when he gets there, we will; so I'll look for the lad turning up at our place on Monday without fail. And now good-day to you, John, for I must be off!"
My father made a mighty effort as he was going, and screwed up his tongue with such effect that it spoke the three words, "Thank you, Bagot," as the hearty man went out at the door.
Where I was going on Monday, or what I was going to be, I had not the remotest idea, nor did my father seem inclined to tell me, for, as soon as the man was gone, he took up his ledger, and waved me off with his hand, and I was obliged to hurry away to my dinner.
