Solomon himself was just as shabby and he pulled
at his whiskers with his accustomed energy.
"Hello!" he said, peering over his spectacles. "What do you want? . . .
Oh, it's you, is it? What's the matter?"
Thankful came forward. "Matter?" she repeated. "What in the world--what
made you think anything was the matter?"
Solomon stared at her fixedly.
"What did you come here for?" he asked.
"To see you. That's worth comin' for, isn't it?"
The joke was wasted, as all jokes seemed to be upon Mr. Cobb. He did not
smile.
"What made you come to see me?" he asked, still staring.
"What made me?"
"Yes. What made you? Have you found--has anybody told
you--er--anything?"
"Anybody told me! My soul and body! That's what you said when I was here
before. Do you say it to everybody? What on earth do you mean by it? Who
would tell me anything? And what would they tell?"
Solomon pulled his whiskers. "Nothin', I guess," he said, after a
moment. "Only there's so much fool talk runnin' loose I didn't know but
you might have heard I was--was dead, or somethin'. I ain't."
"I can see that, I hope. And if you was I shouldn't be traipsin' ten
miles just to look at your remains. Time enough for that at the funeral.
Dead! The idea!"
"Um--well, all right; I ain't dead, yet. Set down, won't ye?"
Thankful sat down. Mr. Cobb swung about in his own chair, so that his
face was in the shadow.
"Hear you've been doin' pretty well with that boardin'-house of yours,"
he observed.
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