“She turned an’ walked with hangin’ head back to the wagon. She climbed on her horse, an’ a minute later the flittin’ disappeared in the hollow at the foot o’ the ridge.”
The Patriarch arose from his chair, walked slowly to the door and stood there looking out into the rain. The men about the stove gazed in astonished silence at his back.
The Miller spoke first. “Well, Grandpap?”
“Well?” said the old man, wheeling about.
“What happened?”
“Who sayd anything was a-goin’ to happen?” snapped the Patriarch.
“What become o’ Absalom?” asked the Storekeeper timidly.
“Oh, he died o’ over-exertin’,” said the Chronic Loafer, wearily, as he threw himself back on the counter.
The Patriarch gave no heed to this remark, but raising his right hand and emphasizing each word with a solemn wag of the forefinger, said, “Boys, I don’t know what happened. Pap never sayd. But now, ’henever I thinks o’ a lazy man, I picturs Absalom Bunkel, settin’ there in the road, his fat legs stretched out afore him, his fat arms proppin’ up that unwieldy body o’ hisn, his eyes an’ his ears a-strainin’ to see an’ hear th’oo the darkness that gathered ’round him what he might ’a’ seen an’ heard allus hed he only hed the ambition to ’a’ gone a few steps furder.”