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Still More
Uncle Israel, whose other name was Skiles, adjusted himself to his grief in short order. The sounds which issued from his room were not those commonly associated with mourning. Dick, fully accustomed to various noises, explained them for the edification of the Carrs, who at present were sorely in need of edification.
“That’s the bath cabinet,” remarked Mr. Chester, with the air of a connoisseur. “He’s setting it up near enough to the door so that if anybody should come in unexpectedly while it’s working, the whole thing will be tipped over and the house set on fire. Uncle Israel won’t have any lock or bolt on his door for fear he should die in the night. He relies wholly on the bath cabinet and moral suasion. Nobody knocks on doors here, anyway—just goes in.
“That’s his trunk. He keeps it under the window. The bed is set up first, then the bath cabinet, then the trunk, and last, but not least, the medicine chest. He keeps his entire pharmacopœia on a table at the head of his bed, with a candle and matches, so that if he feels badly in the night, the proper remedy is instantly at hand. He prepares some of his medicines himself, but he isn’t bigoted about it. He buys the rest at wholesale, and I’ll eat my hat if he hasn’t got a full-sized bottle of every patent medicine that’s on sale anywhere in the United States.”
“How old,” asked Harlan, speaking for the first time, “is Uncle Israel?”
“Something over ninety, I believe,” returned Dick. “I’ve lost my book of vital statistics, so I don’t know, exactly.”
“How long,” inquired Dorothy, with a forced smile, “does Uncle Israel stay?”