“I never did,” interrupted Mrs. Holmes. “I always came in the daytime.”
“Nobody ain’t come at night,” explained Mrs. Smithers, “since ’e fixed the ’ouse over into a face. One female fainted dead away when ’er started up the hill and see it a-winkin’ at ’er, yes sir, that’s wot ’er did!”
“‘It seems only fitting and appropriate,’” continued Mr. Perkins, “‘that you should all see how it seems.’” The poet wiped his massive brow with his soiled handkerchief. “Dear uncle!” he commented.
“Yes,” wheezed Uncle Israel, “‘dear uncle!’ Damn his stingy old soul,” he added, with uncalled-for emphasis.
“It gives me pleasure to explain in this fashion my disposal of my estate,” the reader went on, huskily.
“Of all the connection on both sides, there is only one that has never been to see me, unless I’ve forgotten some, and that is my beloved nephew, James Harlan Carr.”
“Him,” creaked Uncle Israel. “Him, as never see Ebeneezer.”
“He has never,” continued the poet, with difficulty, “rung my door bell at night, nor eaten me out of house and home, nor written begging letters—” this phrase was well-nigh inaudible—“nor had fits on me——”
Here there was a pause and all eyes were fastened upon Uncle Israel.
“’T wa’n’t a fit!” he screamed. “It was a involuntary spasm brought on by takin’ two searchin’ medicines too near together. ’T wa’n’t a fit!”