CHAPTER IX.
THE UNWELCOME GUEST.
The stranger was in rather an awkward predicament. However, he betrayedneither embarrassment nor alarm. Blowing out the candle, he advanced tothe table and set it down. This movement brought him nearer PaulNichols, who, with the timidity natural to an old man, anticipated animmediate attack.
"Don't kill me! Spare my life!" he exclaimed, hastily stepping back.
"I see you don't know me, Uncle Paul?" said the intruder, familiarly.
"Who are you that call me Uncle Paul?" asked the old man, somewhatreassured.
"Benjamin Haley, your sister's son. Do you know me now?"
"You Ben Haley!" exclaimed the old man, betraying surprise. "Why, youare old enough to be his father."
"Remember, Uncle Paul, I am eighteen years older than when you saw melast. Time brings changes, you know. When I saw you last, you were aman in the prime of life, now you are a feeble old man."
"Are you really Ben Haley?" asked the old man, doubtfully.
"To be sure I am. I suppose I look to you more like a bearded savage.Well, I'm not responsible for my looks. Not finding you at home, I tookthe liberty of coming in on the score of relationship."
"What, were you doing with that candle?" asked Paul, suspiciously.
"I went down cellar with it."
"Down cellar!" repeated his uncle, with a look of alarm which didn'tescape his nephew. "What for?"
"In search of something to eat. All I could find in the closet was a dryloaf, which doesn't look very appetizing."
"There's nothing down cellar. Don't go there again," said the old man,still uneasy.
His nephew looked at him shrewdly.
"Ha, Uncle Paul! I've guessed your secret so quick," he said to himself."Some of your money is hidden away in the cellar, I'm thinking."
"Where do you keep your provisions, then?" he said aloud.
"The loaf is all I have."
"Come, Uncle Paul, you don't mean that. That's a scurvy welcome to givea nephew you haven't seen for eighteen years. I'm going to stay todinner with you, and you must give me something better than that.Haven't you got any meat in the house?"
"No."
Just then Ben Haley, looking from the window, saw some chickens in theyard. His eye lighted up at the discovery.
"Ah, there is a nice fat chicken," he said. "We'll have a chickendinner. Shall it be roast or boiled?"
"No, no," said the old farmer, hastily. "I can't spare them. They'llbring a good price in the market by and by."
"Can't help it, Uncle Paul. Charity begins at home. Excuse me a minute,I'll be back directly."
He strode to the door and out into the yard. Then, after a littlemaneuvering, he caught a chicken, and going to the block, seized the ax,and soon decapitated it.
"What have you done?" said Paul, ruefully, for the old man had followedhis nephew, and was looking on in a very uncomfortable frame of mind.
"Taken the first step toward a good dinner," said the other, coolly. "Iam not sure but we shall want two."
"No, no!" said Paul, hastily. "I haven't got much appetite."
"Then perhaps we can make it do. I'll just get it ready, and cook itmyself. I've knocked about in all sorts of places, and it won't be thefirst time I've served as cook. I've traveled some since I saw youlast."
"Have you?" said the old man, who seemed more interested in the untimelydeath of the pullet than in his nephew's adventures.
"Yes, I've been everywhere. I spent a year in Australia at the golddiggings."
"Did you find any?" asked his uncle, for the first time betrayinginterest.
"Some, but I didn't bring away any."
Ben Haley meanwhile was rapidly stripping the chicken of its feathers.When he finished, he said, "Now tell me where you keep your vegetables,Uncle Paul?"
"They're in the corn barn. You can't get in. It's locked."
"Where's the key?"
"Lost."
"I'll get in, never fear," said the intruder, and he led the way to thecorn barn, his uncle unwillingly following and protesting that it wouldbe quite impossible to enter.
Reaching the building, he stepped back and was about to kick open thedoor, when old Paul hurriedly interposed, saying, "No, no, I've foundthe key."
His nephew took it from his hand, and unlocking the door, brought out aliberal supply of potatoes, beets and squashes.
"We'll have a good dinner, after all," he said. "You don't half know howto live, Uncle Paul. You need me here. You've got plenty around you, butyou don't know how to use it."
The free and easy manner in which his nephew conducted himself waspeculiarly annoying and exasperating to the old man, but as often as hewas impelled to speak, the sight of his nephew's resolute face andvigorous frame, which he found it difficult to connect with hisrecollections of young Ben, terrified him into silence, and he contentedhimself with following his nephew around uneasily with looks ofsuspicion.
When the dinner was prepared both sat down to partake of it, but Benquietly, and, as a matter of course, assumed the place of host andcarved the fowl. Notwithstanding the shock which his economical notionshad received, the farmer ate with appetite the best meal of which he hadpartaken for a long time. Ben had not vaunted too highly his skill as acook. Wherever he had acquired it, he evidently understood thepreparation of such a dinner as now lay before them.
"Now, Uncle Paul, if we only had a mug of cider to wash down thedinner. Haven't you got some somewhere?"
"Not a drop."
"Don't you think I might find some stored away in the cellar, forinstance?" asked Ben, fixing his glance upon his uncle's face.
"No, no; didn't I tell you I hadn't got any?" returned Paul Nichols,with petulance and alarm.
"I mean to see what else you have in the cellar," said Ben, to himself,"before I leave this place. There's a reason for that pale face ofyours." But he only said aloud, "Well, if you haven't got any we must dowithout it. There's a little more of the chicken left. As you don't wantit I'll appropriate it. Nothing like clearing up things. Come, this israther better than dry bread, isn't it?"
"It's very expensive," said the miser, ruefully.
"Well, you can afford it, Uncle Paul--there's a comfort in that. Isuppose you are pretty rich, eh?"
"Rich!" repeated Paul, in dismay. "What put such a thing into yourhead?"
"Not your style of living, you may be sure of that."
"I am poor, Benjamin. You mustn't think otherwise. I live as well as Ican afford."
"Then what have you been doing with your savings all these years?"
"My savings! It has taken all I had to live. There isn't any money to bemade in farming. It's hard work and poor pay."
"You used to support your family comfortably when you had one."
"Don't--don't speak of them. I can't bear it," said Paul, hiscountenance changing. "When I had them I was happy."
"And now you're not. Well, I don't wonder at it. It must be dismalenough living alone. You need somebody with you. I am your nephew andnearest relation. I feel that it is my duty to stay with you."
The expression of dismay which overspread the old man's face at thisdeclaration was ludicrous.
"You stay with me?" he repeated, in a tone of alarm.
"Yes, for a time at least. We'll be company for each other, won't we,Uncle Paul?"
"No, no; there's no room."
"No room? You don't mean to say that you need the whole house?"
"I mean I cannot afford to have you here. Besides I'm used to beingalone. I prefer it."
"That's complimentary, at any rate. You prefer to be alone rather thanto have me with you?"
"Don't be offended, Benjamin. I've been alone so many years. Besidesyou'd feel dull here. You wouldn't like it."
"I'll try it and see. What room are you going to give me?"
"You'd better go away."
"Well, uncle, we'll talk about that to-morrow. You're very consideratein fearing it will be dull for
me, but I've roamed about the world somuch that I shall be glad of a little dullness. So it's all settled. Andnow, Uncle Paul, if you don't object I'll take out my pipe and have asmoke. I always smoke after dinner."
He lit his pipe, and throwing himself back in a chair, began to puffaway leisurely, his uncle surveying him with fear and embarrassment. Whyshould his graceless nephew turn up, after so many years, in the form ofthis big, broad-shouldered, heavy-bearded stranger, only to annoy him,and thrust his unwelcome company upon him?
Brave and Bold; Or, The Fortunes of Robert Rushton Page 9
