"Well, I dunno. He don't say nuthin' about a prize. He does kind o' hint
that he'll be sendin' me suthin' pretty soon. I guess likely there'll
be prizes. He o't to take one if there is. He made fust-rate picters,
fust-rate--"

"The whole lot wa'n't wuth the _Jennie_." Andy spoke with sharp
jealousy.

"Well, mebbe not--mebbe not. Want a game of checkers, Andy?"

"_I_ don't care," sullenly. Uncle William brought out the board and
arranged the pieces with stiff fingers.

Andy watched the movements, his eye callous to pleasure.

"It's your move, Andy."

Andy drew up to the table and reached out a hand. . . . The spirit of
the game descended upon him. He pushed forward a man with quick fingers.
"Go ahead."

Uncle William took time. His fingers hovered here and there in loving
calculation. At last he lifted the piece and moved it slowly forward.

"Same move you al'ays make," said Andy, contemptuously.

"Sometimes I beat that way, don't I?"

"And sometimes you don't." Andy shoved forward another piece. The quick
movement expressed scorn of dawdlers.