Jasper declared that it took
about three fingers at a time to do him any good, and into the
declaration the action was dove-tailed. He told a long and rambling
story, relating to a time when he had driven a stage coach; a tickling
recollection touched him and he leaned back and laughed till the tears
rolled down through the time-gullies in his face. Sawyer snapped his
watch. The old man told him to let time take care of itself.

"That's what I'm doing," said Sawyer. "By the way, I've an idea that
I'd like to go squirrel hunting. But I broke my gun the other day and
sent it to the shop. Haven't got an old gun around, have you?"

"There's an old muzzle-loader in there behind the door, standing there
ready to break the leg of a dog that comes over to howl in the
garden."

"Can't shoot a pistol much, can you?"

"Ain't much of a hand with a pistol, Zeby."

"Haven't got one, have you?"

"Had one, but I believe Lyman took it up to his room. There's a good
man, even if you have a cause not to like him; and when I got well
acquainted with him I jest 'lowed that nothin' on the place was too
good for him, so we brushed up the room right over the sittin' room,
and there he sets late in the night and does his work, and sometimes,
'way late, I hear him walkin' up and down, arm in arm with an idea
that he's tryin' to get better acquainted with, he says."

"Is he up there now?"

"No. He ain't come in yet. Sometimes he don't come till late. He's got
fewer regular hours about him than any man I ever seen. He jest takes
everything by fits and starts, and he's mighty funny about some
things--he don't let a man know what he's doin' at all; never comes
down and reads to a body the things that he writes--might write a hymn
to sing at the camp-meeting, and he never would read it to you."

The old man drifted into another stage coach reminiscence and Sawyer
sat in an attitude of pretended interest, but he heard nothing, so
deep-buried was he within himself. He had not much time to spare, and
there was one thing that must be done; it was absolutely essential
that he must go to Lyman's room and get the pistol. He poured out more
whisky for the old man. Jasper continued to talk, but the memories of
the past did not arise to tickle him; they made him sad. He wept over
a girl, his first love, a grave more than forty years old. He sobbed
over his boy, killed in the army. His chin sank upon his breast.
Sawyer got up quickly and began to se