did not go entirely his
way, he could always withdraw--expertly, swiftly, cleverly. Doorsills were
nothing to him. He skimmed them dexterously, as a regiment might storm a
hill. Fortunately, he suffered no pain, though sometimes, in a frenzy, he
affected a twinge in his body, and caused a helpless look to sweep over his
countenance. As a rule, this trick worked beautifully; for who could be
cruel to an invalid in pain? Being a bachelor, and having no relative
closer than Gilbert, the latter took him under his roof. He really liked
the old boy, despite his querulousness.

To-day, Uncle Henry was in one of his temperamental moods. Gilbert, sitting
calmly at the little table, writing, in the low main room of the adobe,
could hear the chair whirling about, each wheel vocal, and revealing the
state of mind of the occupant.

"Gosh! ain't it hot!" finally came from Uncle Henry, his voice a drawl.

Gilbert said nothing. There was nothing to say. Of course it was hot; and
he knew Uncle Henry could be depended upon to continue any conversation
once begun. Sure enough, it wasn't the weather at all that he was deeply
interested in, but the forthcoming midday meal. "Say, ain't we never goin'
to eat? I'm as hungry as a bear."

"Dinner ought to be ready now," Gilbert answered patiently, never looking
up from his paper.

Uncle Henry was not satisfied. "Then why ain't it," he rasped, giving his
chair a twist, "I ain't had nothin' but a rotten cup of coffee since five
o'clock this mornin'."

His nephew rose, and went over to the mantel-piece. How often he had heard
just that remark! He didn't bother to reply to it. Instead, he merely
silenced his uncle with a gesture. Uncle Henry didn't like being silenced.
He looked around, as peevish as a spoiled child, and picked at the cloth
that rested on his knees. Then he switched his chair within reach of the
table, and snatched up a newspaper, much as a boy might grab the brass ring
at a merry-go-round. He would read, if he couldn't make his nephew talk;
and he buried himself in the printed page. Gilbert, having lighted his
pipe, went back to his writing. "Well, what do you know about that!"
exclaimed Uncle Henry, his face aglow.

"About what, Uncle?"

"Why, Ezry Pringle's dead."

"Who's Ezry Pringle?" Gilbert asked, feigning an interest he did not feel.

"A friend o' mine. Only seventy years old, too. He was right in the prime
of life."

Gilbert smiled. "What's that paper you're re