I did not enlighten him, for it is bad manners to contradict a guest. You must never insult people in your own house—always go to theirs.
“I have come, dear Uncle,” I continued, “to study Unnatural History. It is an absorbing pursuit, and I fear you will find me poor company.”
“No,” returned Uncle Antonio, in his gentle, foreign way, “zat no maka da dif to me. I lika you mucha da bet when you say nossing—nossing ’t all. Ze more you keepa da still, ze more your Oncle lofe you.”
With his fine comprehension, he had instantly penetrated to the heart of things. “Staya da here,” he said, with touching dignity, “until Jocko maka da return trip. Jocko always bringa cent when he coma da back.”
In some way, it reminded me of those stories of New England, so plentiful in our day and generation, and always so beautifully written, where somebody is always waiting for somebody else, who never comes. In those rare instances where the long wait is rewarded, the emotion of the lost one’s arrival has always been attenuated into nothingness. In a reminiscent mood, also, I mused upon an epigram my sister made, on the tenth anniversary of her wedding day. “Before marriage,” she said, with a little choke in her voice, “woman spends all her life waiting for her husband. After marriage, she spends three quarters of it in the same way.” My brother-in-law, I may say, in explanation, was one of those people who make it the chief business of their lives to be late to everything.
I left a note for Hoop-La under a boulder by the path which I felt sure she would take when she grew bolder and came to visit me. The next day, when I went to look for it, it was gone, and I was pleased to think she had it. At supper, however, Uncle Antonio produced it from the secret recesses of his attire.
“I getta da dead next to you,” he said, with a merry laugh. “You gotta da sweetheart here. Zat is ze reason w’y you maka da chase of your poor old Oncle out. Me no leava da monk.”
The ensuing quarter of an hour was very unpleasant for me, though at length I convinced him that I had nothing to do with the note. He would not accept my word until I wrote a page or so for him, in another hand. I was foxy enough to learn to write three or four different hands at school and it has come in handy early and often since.
I soon saw, however, that I should not be troubled much with Uncle Antonio. Every day he took long, cross-country tramps, “to finda da monk,” as he pathetically said, and often having disagreements with cross country tramps whom he met on the road. But he did not mind, and his faith and hope were absolutely without limit.
Hoop-La came one day when he was absent. I first felt her bright eyes upon me from a thicket close at hand, then I saw her tawny orange-coloured fur, and presently she approached, walking on her hind legs, with her magnificent tail thrown over one arm. Her tail was her principal adornment; her paws were her chief features. She was doing the kangaroo walk to perfection, and when I went in and brought out a paper of cookies she did the cake walk also.