“Oh, dad.”
The Old Man arose hurriedly and disappeared in the closet. Presently he reappeared.
“His rheumatiz is coming on agin bad,” he explained, “and he wants rubbin’.”
He lifted the demijohn of whisky from the table and shook it. It was empty.
Dick Bullen put down his tin cup with an embarrassed laugh. So did the others.
The Old Man examined their contents, and said, hopefully—
“I reckon that’s enough; he don’t need much. You hold on all o’ you for a spell, and I’ll be back;” and vanished in the closet with an old flannel shirt and the whisky.
The door closed but imperfectly, and the following dialogue was distinctly audible:—
“Now, sonny, whar does she ache worst?”
“Sometimes over yar and sometimes under yer; but it’s most powerful from yer to yer. Rub yer, dad.”