“Silly. You don’t do that with a sewing-machine.”
Peter’s spring wagon was standing outside his door. It was a quaint, old-fashioned vehicle––just such a conveyance as one would expect him to possess. It had lain idle during most of his time in Barnriff, and had suffered much from the stress of bitter winters and the blistering sun of summers. But it still possessed four clattering wheels, even though the woodwork and the tires looked conspicuously like parting company.
The last of his household goods, with the exception of his blankets, had been loaded up. There was a confused 413 pile of gold-prospecting tools and domestic chattels. Books and “washing” pans, pictures and steel drills, jostled with each other in a manner thoroughly characteristic of his disregard for the comforts of life. These material matters concerned him so little.
He was scraping out a large frying-pan, the one utensil which shared with his “billy” the privilege of supplying him with a means of cooking his food. The work he was engaged upon was something of a strain. It seemed so unnecessary. Still, the process was his habit of years, so he did not attempt to shirk it. But he looked up with relief when he heard voices, and a glad smile of welcome greeted Jim and Eve as they came up.
“Peter, I’ve–––”
“Peter, we’ve–––”
Jim and Eve both began to speak at the same time. And both broke off to let the other go on.
Peter glanced swiftly from one to the other. His shrewd eyes took in the situation at once.
“I’m glad,” he said, “real glad. Jim,” he went on, “I guess your luck’s set in. Eve, my dear, your luck’s running, too. I’m just glad.”