Thankful spoke to him.
"Are you sick, Solomon?" she asked.
Mr. Cobb shook his head.
"Eh?" he grunted. "No, no, I ain't sick. I guess I ain't; I don't know."
"Breakfast is all ready, Mr. Cobb," suggested Emily.
Solomon turned a weary eye in her direction. He looked old, very old.
"Breakfast!" he repeated feebly. "Don't talk about breakfast to me! I'll
never eat again in this world."
Thankful pitied him; she could not help it.
"Oh, yes, you will," she said, heartily. "Just try one of those clam
fritters of Imogene's and you'll eat a whole lot. If you don't you'll be
the first one."
He shook his head. "Thankful," he said, slowly, "I--I want to talk to
you. I've got to talk to you--alone."
"Alone! Why, Emily's just the same as one of the family. There's no
secrets between us, Solomon."
"I don't care. I wan't to talk to you. It's you I've got to talk to."
Thankful would have protested once more, but Emily put a hand on her
arm.
"I'll go into the living-room with Georgie, Auntie," she whispered.
"Yes, I shall."
She went and closed the door behind her. Thankful sat down in a chair,
wondering what was coming next. Solomon did not look at her, but, after
a moment, he spoke.
"Thankful Cahoon," he said, calling her by her maiden name. "I--I've
been a bad man. I'm goin' to hell."
Thankful jumped. "Mercy on us!" she cried. "What kind of talk--"
"I'm goin' to hell," repeated Solomon. "When a man does the way I've
done that's where he goes.
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