reigned too long to be fearful of any retort from any mere subject who
walked about on two firm legs. For ten years he had held court, moving his
little throne about with sudden jerks. When things did not go entirely his
way, he could always withdraw--expertly, swiftly, cleverly. Doorsills were
nothing to him. He skimmed them dexterously, as a regiment might storm a
hill. Fortunately, he suffered no pain, though sometimes, in a frenzy, he
affected a twinge in his body, and caused a helpless look to sweep over his
countenance. As a rule, this trick worked beautifully; for who could be
cruel to an invalid in pain? Being a bachelor, and having no relative
closer than Gilbert, the latter took him under his roof. He really liked
the old boy, despite his querulousness.

To-day, Uncle Henry was in one of his temperamental moods. Gilbert, sitting
calmly at the little table, writing, in the low main room of the adobe,
could hear the chair whirling about, each wheel vocal, and revealing the
state of mind of the occupant.

"Gosh! ain't it hot!" finally came from Uncle Henry, his voice a drawl.

Gilbert said nothing. There was nothing to say. Of course it was hot; and
he knew Uncle Henry could be depended upon to continue any conversation
once begun. Sure enough, it wasn't the weather at all that he was deeply
interested in, but the forthcoming midday meal. "Say, ain't we never goin'
to eat? I'm as hungry as a bear."

"Dinner ought to be ready now," Gilbert answered patiently, never looking
up from his paper.

Uncle Henry was not satisfied. "Then why ain't it," he rasped, giving his
chair a twist, "I ain't had nothin' but a rotten cup of coffee since five