"That's what I'm doing," said Sawyer. "By the way, I've an idea that I'd like to go squirrel hunting. But I broke my gun the other day and sent it to the shop. Haven't got an old gun around, have you?"
"There's an old muzzle-loader in there behind the door, standing there ready to break the leg of a dog that comes over to howl in the garden."
"Can't shoot a pistol much, can you?"
"Ain't much of a hand with a pistol, Zeby."
"Haven't got one, have you?"
"Had one, but I believe Lyman took it up to his room. There's a good man, even if you have a cause not to like him; and when I got well acquainted with him I jest 'lowed that nothin' on the place was too good for him, so we brushed up the room right over the sittin' room, and there he sets late in the night and does his work, and sometimes, 'way late, I hear him walkin' up and down, arm in arm with an idea that he's tryin' to get better acquainted with, he says."
"Is he up there now?"
"No. He ain't come in yet. Sometimes he don't come till late. He's got fewer regular hours about him than any man I ever seen. He jest takes everything by fits and starts, and he's mighty funny about some things—he don't let a man know what he's doin' at all; never comes down and reads to a body the things that he writes—might write a hymn to sing at the camp-meeting, and he never would read it to you."
The old man drifted into another stage coach reminiscence and Sawyer sat in an attitude of pretended interest, but he heard nothing, so deep-buried was he within himself. He had not much time to spare, and there was one thing that must be done; it was absolutely essential that he must go to Lyman's room and get the pistol. He poured out more whisky for the old man. Jasper continued to talk, but the memories of the past did not arise to tickle him; they made him sad. He wept over a girl, his first love, a grave more than forty years old. He sobbed over his boy, killed in the army. His chin sank upon his breast. Sawyer got up quickly and began to search for the gun. He found it and hid it under a bed. Then he turned his attention to Lyman's room. The apartment was approached by an encased stairway, leading from the sitting-room. He lifted the latch and listened, the old man was snoring; the young man felt like a thief; but that was to be expected, and therefore did not alarm his conscience. The stairs creaked, still he did not pause. The door of Lyman's room, to the left at the head of the stairs, was not locked. Sawyer struck a match and stepped inside. He lighted a lamp and looked about the room. On the table lay sheets of paper, some of them covered with close, nervous writing, and upon others were scratches, half-formed words, the tracks of a mind wandering in a bog. He pulled open the table drawer and eagerly grabbed up a pistol. Then he turned out the light and walked hastily down the stairs. Old Jasper was still asleep, his head on one side, like an old hawk worn out with a long fight. Sawyer put the pistol on the side-board, behind a tin tray standing on edge, and then sat down to wait. It was nearly time for the "boys" to come. He heard a key in the front door lock, and he put out the light. The door opened and closed, the latch of the stair door clicked; he heard Lyman going up to his room.