“I’m real glad to see you,” he said. “Won’t you set down? Poker, you let the lady alone”—addressing the dog. “He’s just playful; he won’t bite. Mr. Wickliff lets me have him here; he was Johnny’s dog, and he’s company to me. He likes it. They let him out whenever he wants, you know.” His eyes for a second passed the faces before him and lingered on the bare branches of the maple swaying between his window grating and the sky. Was he thinking that he would see the trees but once, on one terrible journey?
Raker blew his nose violently.
“Well, I’m off to Des Moines, Sol,” said Amos.
“Yes, sir. And about Elly going? I don’t want her to go to all that expense if it won’t do no good. I want to leave her all the money I can—”
“You never mind about the money.” Amos took the words off his tongue with friendly gruffness. “But she better wait till we see how I git along. Maybe there’ll be no necessity.”
“It’s a kinder long journey for a young lady,” said Joscelyn, anxiously, “and it’s so hard getting word of those big folks, and I hate to think of her having to hang round. Elly’s so timid like, and maybe somebody not being polite to her—”
“I’ll attend to all that, Joscelyn. She shall go in a Pullman, and everything will be fixed.”
“Can you git passes? You are doing a terrible lot of things for me, Mr. Wickliff; and Mr. Raker too, and his good lady” (with a grateful glance at Raker, who rocked in the rocking-chair and was lapped in gloom). “It does seem like you folks here are awful kind to folks in trouble, and if I ever git out—” He was not equal to the rest of the sentence, but Amos covered his faltering with a brisk—
“That’s all right. Say, ’ain’t you got some new flowers?”
Joscelyn smiled. “Those are from the boys over to the mill. Ten of them boys was over to see me Sunday, no three knowing the others were coming. I tell you when a man gits into trouble he finds out about his friends. I got awful good friends. The roller sent me that box of cigars. And there’s one little feller—he works on the hot-bed, one of them kids—and he walked all the six miles, ’cross the bridge and all, ’cause he didn’t have money for the fare. Why he didn’t have money, he’d spent it all in boot-jack tobacco and a rosy apple for me. He’s a real nice little boy. If—if things was to go bad with me, would you kinder have an eye on Hughey, Mr. Wickliff?”