The old man looked up at the ceiling. "I reckon it's all right, but I don't exactly get the hang of it," he said, getting up and taking his hat off the table.
"Understand what, Uncle Buckley?" Lyman asked.
"Oh, nothin'. It's all right, I reckon. Young feller, jest keep on a shootin' your paper at me. We find some mighty interestin' readin' in it; and sometimes Lige he breaks out in a loud laugh over a piece, and he 'lows, 'if that ain't old Sammy, up and up, I don't want a cent.' Well, boys, I've some knockin' around to do and I'll have to bid you good day."
CHAPTER XIV.
Nothing Remarkable in It.
Mr. McElwin put aside his newspaper and paced slowly up and down the room, his slippered feet falling with an emphatic pat on the carpet. His wife sat near the window, watching the swallows cutting black circles in the dusky air. Eva was seated at the piano, half turned from it, while with one hand she felt about to touch the nerve of some half-forgotten tune. McElwin dropped down in an arm chair.
"I wonder if this newspaper will ever stop talking about that fellow's story," said he. "I read it over and I didn't see anything remarkable in it. Of course it's all right to feel a local pride in a thing, but gracious alive, we don't want to go into fits over it. Now, here's nearly half a column about it."
"Let me see it," said Eva. He picked up the paper and held it out to her. She got off the piano stool, took the paper and stood near her father, under the hanging lamp.