" He seemed to pull at the words, giving each a retarded
emphasis. As I approached, he drew me towards him, where he had sunk on
the dingy, orange-fringed sofa. "N-ow, y're a nice young fellow--a bit
scrawny, though. Ye--gotta horse?"
I shook my head.
"N-ow, then--ye aughtta have a h-orse. Yer pappy should see to't."
His gray eyes, then almost blue against the loose brown skin of his
face, held me speechless.
"N-ow I gotta horse--a fine horse fur a boy. Ye might ride her--like
to? Then, if yer pappy wanted, he cou'd buy her fur ye?"
I looked at him in doubt.
"Yes, he could. Yer pappy has more money than anyone hereabouts, and it
ain't right--I tell you, it ain't _right_ to have a little boy like you
and not give him--eve-ry thing he wants!"
His last words ended in that slow climactic inflection that made
whatever he said so indisputable. It was not unlike the minister's
voice, I thought; and, my glance chancing to fall on the opened Bible, I
was about to question him, when the door was pushed back hurriedly,
admitting my father's lank, wiry figure along with a stream of chilling
air.
"G-ood morning, Mr. Breighton--a f-ine morning."
"Morning, Darton," said my father crisply. "Can I go directly upstairs?"
"No hurry n-ow, Doctor. It's all over.
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