Sailor came slowly to the steps and stopped.
“Yeah, it’s you, Len,” he said softly. “It’s you jist as sure as the Lord made little apples. You ain’t changed. Nossir, you ain’t changed—much. Len!” He shoved out a skinny hand. “My gosh, I’m shore glad to see yuh again!”
“Hey!” yelled Whispering from inside the house. He had heard Sailor say Len’s name, and out he came, with a skillet in one hand and a rag in the other.
He stopped short in the doorway, his mouth sagging open. Whispering was nearly six feet tall and would weigh two hundred and forty pounds. His face was like a full moon—a fairly red moon, too, and his head was as innocent of hair as a billiard ball.
He dropped the skillet with a clang, strode out and shoved Sailor inside.
“Git out and let him shake hands with a man!” he blurted in his high-pitched voice. “Len, you dern old pelican! Oh, you dog-gone rascal! Sneakin’ in on us thataway! Shut up, Sailor!”
“I wasn’t sayin’ anythin’.”
“Then don’t. Len, c’mon up here on the verandy and let me look at yuh. Same person. Don’t say anythin’, Sailor.”
“I wasn’t sayin’ anythin’.”
“Don’t, I tell yuh. I jist want to contemplate Len.”