"But why can't he finish it at the Farm? I guess Mis' Dean would give
him a closet to keep it in."

"Closet? Mercy! He's got it all spread out on a table in his room at
the hotel. Them loafers go up and look at it, and bust right out
laughin'. Josh says it's all little wheels and lookin'-glasses, and
they got to be balanced just so. Mis' Dean ain't got a spot he could
have for ten minutes at a time."

They were silent for a few minutes, and then Lizzie Graham said: "Does
he feel bad at bein' a pauper? The Mays was always respectable. Old
Mis' May was real proud."

Mrs. Butterfield ruminated: "Well, he don't like it, course. But he
said (you know he's crazy)--'I am nothin',' he says, 'and my pride is
less than nothin'. But for the sake of the poor Dead, grant me time,'
he says. Ain't it pitiful? Almost makes you feel like lettin' him
wait. But what's the use?"

Lizzie Graham nodded. "But there's people would pay money for one of
them machines--if it worked."

"That's what he said; he said he'd make a pile of money. But he didn't
care about that, except then he could pay board to Dyer, if Dyer'd let
him stay."

"An' won't he?"

"No; and I don't see as he has any call to, any more 'an you or me."