He let his arm and
hand fall from the doorpost to his side like dead things. "Thank
you, missus," he said, apparently unconscious of Uncle Abe, and went
and sat down in front of the fire.
"Hadn't you better take your wet coat off and let me dry it?"
"Thank you." He took off his coat, and, turning the sleeve, inside
out, hung it from his knees with the lining to the fire then he leaned
forward, with his hands on his knees, and stared at the burning logs
and steam. He was unarmed, or, if not, had left his pistols in the
saddle-bag outside.
Andy Page, general handy-man (who was there all the time, but has not
been mentioned yet, because he didn't mention anything himself which
seemed necessary to this dark picture), now remarked to the stranger,
with a wooden-face expression but a soft heart, that the rain would be
a good thing for the grass, mister, and make it grow; a safe remark to
make under the present, or, for the matter of that, under any
circumstances.
The stranger said, "Yes; it would."
"It will make it spring up like anything," said Andy.
The stranger admitted that it would.
Uncle Abe joined in, or, rather, slid in, and they talked about the
drought and the rain and the state of the country, in monosyllables
mostly, with "Jesso," and "So it is," and "You're right there,"
till the settler came back with the young man dressed in rough and
patched, but dry, clothes. He took another stool by his mate's side
at the fire, and had another fit of coughing.
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