folks--or him either, for that matter--that we didn't know, he opened out
and talked perfectly free and candid. He never made any bones about his
own case; said he'd been a hard lot, was a hard lot yet, and reckoned
he'd be a hard lot plumb to the end. He said of course it was a
dangerous life, and--He give a kind of gasp, and set his head like a
person that's listening. We didn't say anything, and so it was very
still for a second or so, and there warn't no sounds but the screaking of
the woodwork and the chug-chugging of the machinery down below.

Then we got him comfortable again, telling him about his people, and how
Brace's wife had been dead three years, and Brace wanted to marry Benny
and she shook him, and Jubiter was working for Uncle Silas, and him and
Uncle Silas quarreling all the time--and then he let go and laughed.

"Land!" he says, "it's like old times to hear all this tittle-tattle, and
does me good. It's been seven years and more since I heard any. How do
they talk about me these days?"

"Who?"

"The farmers--and the family."

"Why, they don't talk about you at all--at least only just a mention,
once in a long time."

"The nation!" he says, surprised; "why is that?"

"Because they think you are dead long ago."

"No! Are you speaking true?--honor bright, now." He jumped up, excited.