Uncle William: The Man Who Was Shif'less Part 11

It was a small, roughly shaped pill, with grayish surface pitted with black.

The young man eyed it doubtfully.

"It _don't_ look very nice," said Uncle William, "and the man that made it never had a st.i.tch of clothes on his back in his life; but I guess you better take it."

The young man opened his lips. The thing slid down, leaving a sickish, sweetish taste behind it.

Uncle William brought him a gla.s.s of water. "I know how it tastes, but I reckon it'll do the work. Now, let's see." he stood back, surveying the untidy room, a mellow smile on his lips. "'T is kind o' cluttered up,"

he said. "I'll jest make a path through." He gathered up a handful of shoes and slippers and thrust them under the bed, drawing the spread down to hid them. The cups and gla.s.ses and scattered spoons and knives he bore away to the bath-room, and the artist heard them descending into the tub with a sound of rus.h.i.+ng water. Uncle William returned triumphant. "I've put 'em a-soak," he explained. The table-spread, with its stumps of cigars, bits of torn papers, and collars and neckties and books and paint-brushes and tubes, he gathered up by the four corners, dumping it into a half-open drawer. He closed the drawer firmly. "Might 's well start fresh." He replaced the spread and stood back, surveying it proudly. "What's that door?" He pointed across the room.

"It's your bedroom," said the artist, a little uneasily. "But I don't believe you can get in."

Uncle William approached cautiously. He pushed open the door and looked in. He came back beaming. "The' 's quite a nice lot of room," he said, taking hold of the end of his box and dragging it away.

The artist lay looking about the room with brightening eyes. The window-shades were still askew and there were garments here and there, but Uncle William's path was a success. The sun was coming over the tops of the houses opposite, and Uncle William reappeared with s.h.i.+ning face.

"You reely needed a man around," he said. "I'm putty glad I come."

"What made you come?" asked the artist.

"What made me?" Uncle William paused, looking about him. "Where's my spectacles? Must 'a' left 'em in there." He disappeared once more.

While the artist was waiting for him to return he dozed again, and when he opened his eyes, Uncle William was standing by the bed with a cup of something hot. He slipped a hand under the young man's head, raising it while he drank.

The artist took his time--in slow, surprised sips. "It's good!" he said.

He released the cup slowly.

Uncle William nodded. "I've been overhaulin' your locker a little."

"You didn't find _that_ in it." The artist motioned to the cup.

"Well--all but a drop or two," said Uncle William, setting it down. "A drop o' suthin' hot'll make 'most anything tasty, I reckon. I'll go out and stock up pretty soon."

A slow color had come into the artist's face. He turned it away. "I don't need much," he said.

"No more'n a robin," said Uncle William, cheerfully; "but I can't live on bird-seed myself. I reckon I'll lay in suthin'--two-three crackers, mebbe, enough to make a chowder."

The young man laughed out. "I feel better," he declared.

"It's a good pill," said Uncle William. "Must be 'most time for another." He pulled out his great watch. "Jest about." He doled out the pill with careful hand.

The young man looked at the bottle. "You haven't many left?"

"Eight more," said Uncle William, rapping the cork into place. "That 'lows for one more fever for me afore I die--I don't cal'ate to have but one more." He looked about for his hat. "I'm goin' out a little while,"

he said, settling it on his head.

"Wait a minute, Uncle William." The young man stretched out his hand.

"How did you come to know I needed you?"

Uncle William took the hand in his, patting it slowly. "Why, that was nateral enough," he said. "When Sergia wrote me, sayin' you was sick--"

"Sergia wrote you?" the young man had turned away his eyes. "She should not have done it. She had no right--"

"Why not?" said Uncle William. He seated himself by the bed. There was something keen in the glance of his blue eyes. "You're goin' to be married, ain't you?"

The head on the pillow turned uneasily. "No--not now."

"Why not?"

"I shall never be able to take care of her."

"Shucks!" said Uncle William. "Let her take care of you, then."

The tears of weakness came into the young man's eyes.

Uncle William's gaze was fixed on s.p.a.ce. "You've been foolish," he said--"turrible foolish. I don't doubt she wants to marry you this minute."

"She shall not do it." He spoke almost fiercely.

"There, there," said Uncle William, soothingly, "I wouldn't make such a fuss about it. n.o.body's goin' to marry you 'thout you want 'em to. You jest quiet down and go to sleep. We'll talk it over when I come back."

XI

When he returned the artist was awake. His eyes had a clearer look.

Uncle William surveyed them over the top of his parcels. "Feelin'

better?" he said.

"Yes."

He carried the parcels into the next room, and the artist heard him pottering around and humming. He came out presently in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves. His spectacles were mounted on the gray tufts. "I've got a chowder going'," he said. "You take another pill and then you'll be about ready to eat some of it, when it's done."

"Can I eat chowder?" The tone was dubious, but meek.

"You've got all your teeth, hain't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, I guess you can eat it."

"I haven't been eating much."

"I shouldn't think you had." Uncle William spoke dryly. "You needn't be a mite afraid o' one o' my chowders. A baby could eat 'em, if it had got its teeth."

The artist ate the chowder, when it came, and called for more, but Uncle William refused him sternly. "You jest wait awhile," he said, bearing away the empty plate. "There ain't more'n enough for a comfortable dish for me. You don't want to eat it all, do you?"