After the arduous labor of feeding the stock and poultry, drawing water and bringing in wood, old Arad hardly felt equal to either the task of preparing breakfast, or eating the same; but he did at last sit down to what he termed “a cold snack” about seven o’clock.
“That ’ere boy sleeps like a pig,” he muttered, with a groan, twisting about in his chair to get an easy position for his rheumatic limbs. “I wonder he hain’t begun er-kickin’ on th’ door, er suthin’, yit.”
At that moment there was a noise behind him, and turning about he beheld the subject of his thoughts standing in the doorway leading to the floor above.
Uncle Arad gave a shout expressing surprise and anger, and sprang to his feet. Brandon had been surveying him coolly, with a smile on his face, and now he laughed outright.
“Good morning, uncle,” he said.
He was fully dressed in his best suit, hat, overcoat and all, and carried a traveling bag in his hand.
“How—how did ye git aout?” sputtered Uncle Arad, in wonder.
“How did I get out?”
“Yes—haow did ye git aouto’ yer room?” cried the old man.
“I wasn’t in, therefore I didn’t have to get out,” responded Brandon calmly.