“Mebbee ye’ve wondered why I sot sech store by Johnnie.  Wal—­I’ll tell ye.  Johnnie’s paw an’ me was brothers an’ pardners afore the war.  An’ after Bull Run John sez to me:  ‘Abram,’ he sez, ’we mustn’t let Ole Glory trail in the dust.’  That’s what he sez.  ‘John,’ I answers, ’what kin we do to prevent it?’ ‘Enlist,’ sez he.  An’ we done it.  But afore we go within smellin’ distance o’ the rebs, yes, boys, afore we saw ’em, a bullet comes slam-bang into John’s head.”

The old man paused, overcome.  We turned our eyes from his wrinkled, troubled face, as Ajax entreated him to say no more.

“He died in defence of his flag,” I muttered.

“Ah!” exclaimed Johnnie’s uncle, “I thought you’d say that.  No, boys, John didn’t die.  A Kapus takes a heap o’ killin.’  John up an lived—­ an’ married!  He married my girl, too, Susie Bunker.  Susie felt awful sorry for him, for that there rebel bullet had kinder made scrambled eggs with pore John’s brains.  I let Susie marry John, because I knew that he needed a good woman’s keer.  And then Johnnie was born:  a whoppin’ baby, but with a leetle something missin’ in his purty head.  Then John died, and soon enough Susie got peaked-face an’ lost her relish fer food.  She tuk a notion that John needed her t’otherside.  Just afore she sent in her checks, she give me Johnnie, an’ she ast my pardon for marryin’ John instead o’ me.  I tole her she done right.  An’ I promised to look after Johnnie.  Up to date, boys, I hev.  But now that darned widder woman has onexpectedly kidnapped him.  What kin I do?”

“The widow will look after both of you,” I suggested.

“What!  Share my Johnnie with her?  Not much.  She stole that there boy from me by force.  By Jing!  I’ll take him from her without liftin’ a finger.  Ye see, Johnnie is mighty apt to disappint the widder.  Sometimes—­more often than not—­Johnnie is—­disappintin’!  I allus jedge the pore boy by contrairies.  Most o’ men when they marry air apt to forgit them as raised ’em, but Johnnie’ll pine fer me.  I know it.  Bless his heart, he can’t git along nohow without me.”

Listening to this simple talk, watching the old man’s rough, honest face, my own heart grew chill with apprehension.  The widow had a small income and many charms.  It was certain that Johnnie’s curly hair, bright blue eyes, and stalwart figure had captivated her fancy.  Pity had bloomed into love.  The pair must have driven—­as fast as the widow’s steed could travel—­into San Lorenzo.  By this time, high noon, the licence, doubtless, had been issued and the marriage solemnised by parson or justice of the peace.  Once married, no man—­not even old man Kapus—­would be justified in tearing Bumblepuppy from the fond arms of his bride.

We asked Johnnie’s uncle to dine with us.  He thanked us warmly.

“Boys, you surmise that I’m feelin’ lonesome.  And I am.  But I won’t be lonesome long.  The widder can’t let that cow o’ hers go without two milkin’s, an’ her pigs an’ chickens must be fed.  She’ll be back in the village ‘bout four or five; an’ to-night, to-night, boys, my Johnnie ’ll be home to supper.”