o'clock this mornin'."

His nephew rose, and went over to the mantel-piece. How often he had heard
just that remark! He didn't bother to reply to it. Instead, he merely
silenced his uncle with a gesture. Uncle Henry didn't like being silenced.
He looked around, as peevish as a spoiled child, and picked at the cloth
that rested on his knees. Then he switched his chair within reach of the
table, and snatched up a newspaper, much as a boy might grab the brass ring
at a merry-go-round. He would read, if he couldn't make his nephew talk;
and he buried himself in the printed page. Gilbert, having lighted his
pipe, went back to his writing. "Well, what do you know about that!"
exclaimed Uncle Henry, his face aglow.

"About what, Uncle?"

"Why, Ezry Pringle's dead."

"Who's Ezry Pringle?" Gilbert asked, feigning an interest he did not feel.

"A friend o' mine. Only seventy years old, too. He was right in the prime
of life."

Gilbert smiled. "What's that paper you're reading?"

"The _Bangor Daily Commercial_, printed at Bangor, Maine. An' that's the
only decent town in the whole gol darn world. Wisht I was there now!" He
glanced at the alcove that led to another room, as if conscious that Morgan
Pell might have heard him. He wanted to say something more to Gilbert, but
something told him he had better keep silent. Instead, he read an item from
the paper aloud to him. "Listen to this, Gilbert," he said: "'The Elite