“He ain’t jes’ th’ man I’d er chosen ter do th’ work fur me,” muttered the old sinner; “but then, he’s the old sailor I know, an’ it’s got ter take a sailor, I s’pose, ter go ter them furrin parts.
“He knows suthin’ erbout it already, too, an’ it wouldn’t do ter let him git mad an’ go an’ tell this ’ere Wetherbee; then mebbe I couldn’t git th’ papers from him. But th’ fust thing is ter hev thet ’p’intment as guardeen fixed up.”
Brandon was in the yard when he arrived, and good naturedly put up the horse for him.
“I’ve seen Mrs. Hemingway, uncle,” he said cheerfully, “and she’ll be up here tomorrow morning. I shall take the stage to town in the morning, and go to New York on the evening train, I guess.”
“Ye will, eh?” returned Uncle Arad, showing his teeth.
“Yes. Now you mustn’t get uppish, uncle. You didn’t suppose I would stay here very long any way, did you?”
“I s’pect ye’ll stay here a spell,” replied the old man, with a cunning leer. “I ain’t fed an’ su’ported ye in lux’ry fur nigh four year fur nothin’. Ye’ll stay here as my ward fur yer minor’ty, now I tell ye.”
But Brandon was laughing over the thought of Uncle Arad’s “luxury,” and did not hear the last of his speech.
He did the most of the chores about the house and barn, as was usual, and helped prepare the extremely frugal meal which Uncle Arad’s larder afforded.
“By George!” he thought, as he set about this latter task, “if I was in the forecastle of some old ‘hooker’ I shouldn’t have worse fare than this. I declare I’ll go off tomorrow before breakfast. This will be my last meal at Uncle Arad’s table for one spell at least.”