“I passed through thar goin’ from Dalton to Canton,” went on Bob, warming up. “It’s a purty country through them mountains. What was you a-follerin’ back thar?”
“Farmin’ it. Thar was jest three uv us—me an’ brother Joe an’ mother; but we couldn’t git along together.”
“What a pity!” said Bob.
“I al’ays wanted to make money,” went on Jim, “an’ atter the old man died I was anxious fer me an’ Joe to save up enough to git a farm uv our own; but he tuk to drinkin’ an’ spreein’ round generally, an’ was al’ays off jest when the crop needed the most attention. I al’ays was easy irritated, an’ never could be satisfied onless I was goin’ ahead. Me an’ Joe was eternally a-fussin’, an’ mother al’ays tuk his part. One night she got rippin’ mad, an’ ‘lowed that she could git along better with ’im ef I wasn’t thar to make trouble, an’ so I made up my mind to come West. I tol’ ’em they was welcome to my intrust in the crap, an that I had had all I could stand up under, an’ was goin’ off. Mother never even said farewell, an’ Joe sorter turned up his nose, an’ ‘lowed I’d be writin’ back an’ beggin’ fer money to git home on ‘fore a month was out. I told mother ef she ever needed help to write, but she never looked up from her spinnin’-wheel, an’ from that day to this I hain’t had a scratch of a pen.”
“Shorely you didn’t leave a old woman in sech hands as that,” ventured Bob.
The expression on Jim Bradley’s face changed. “What was I to do? Ef I’d ‘a’ stayed thar I’d ‘a’ been a beggar to-day,” he said, argumentatively. “I ‘lowed ef I was sech a bother I’d leave ‘em; but I ’ll admit thar are times when I think I may ‘a’ been a leetle hasty. An’ I do hanker atter home folks mighty bad at times, especially when I’m locked up in this lonely store at night, with nothin’ but my cat fer company. I’ve been intendin’ to write to mother every day, but some ‘n’ al’ays interferes. I heerd four year ago, accidentally, that they was gittin’ ’long tolerable well.”
“It’s mighty tough on fellers of our age, Jim, to grow old alone in the world,” sighed Bob, reaching out to the crate for another splinter. “I’d ruther have less money an’ more rale home comforts. Kin is a great thing. Brother Sam sent me a pictur’ uv his little gal. I wish I had it to show you; she’s mighty purty an’ smart-lookin’. It made me mighty homesick.’
“I reckon it did,” said Bradley. “I’ve seed dogs that lived better than I do. D’ you fellers ever see whar I bunk?”
“No,” joined in Thornton and Webb, seeing that they were addressed.
“Come into my parlor, then;” and Jim grinned, broadly. He lifted the lamp, and holding it over his head, he led them through some curtains made of cotton bagging into the back room. Empty boxes, hogsheads, crates, bales of hay, heaps of old iron, and every sort of rubbish imaginable covered the floor. A narrow bed stood by a window between a row of dripping syrup-barrels and the greasy wall. “Thar’s whar I sleep,” said Jim, pointing to the bed. “It hain’t been made up in a coon’s age. Sometimes old Injun Mary changes the sheets an’ turns the mattress when she happens along, but it hain’t often. At home I used to sleep in a big sweet-smellin’ bed that was like lyin’ down in a pile o’ roses.”