“I guess that’s so.  I can see hundreds of ways to make money.  I’d rather be a big merchant than anything else.  Old fellow,” he suddenly broke off, “I am as happy as can be to have you go out yonder with us; and mark what I tell you—­we’re going to have a splendid time.”

CHAPTER II.

A sleepy village and A fussy old man.

In the village of Ulmata there was just enough of life to picture the dreamy indolence of man.  Rest was its complexion, and freedom from all marks of care its most pleasing aspect.

Old Sawyer was so demonstrably gratified to have a companion for his nephew that he invited DeGolyer to take a room in his house, and DeGolyer gratefully accepted this kindness.  Young Sawyer was delighted when the household had thus been arranged, and with many small confidences and unstudied graces of boyish friendship, he kept his guest in the refreshing atmosphere of welcome.  And in the main the uncle was agreeable and courteous, but there were times when he flew out of his orbit of goodfellowship.

Once he came puffing into the room where DeGolyer was writing, and blusteringly flounced upon a sofa.  He remained quiet for a few moments, and then he blew so strong a spout of annoyance that DeGolyer turned to him and asked: 

“Has anything gone wrong?”

The old fellow’s eyes bulged out as if he were straining under a heavy load.  “Yes,” he puffed, “the devil’s gone wrong.”

“But isn’t that of ancient date?” DeGolyer asked.

“Here, now, young fellow, don’t try to saw me!” And then he broke off with this execration:  “Oh, this miserable world—­this infernal pot where men are boiled!” He rolled his eyes like a choking ox, and after a short silence, asked:  “Young fellow, do you know what I’d do if I were of your age?”

“If you were of my temperament as well as of my age I don’t think you’d do much of anything.”

“Yes, I would; I would confer a degree of high favor on myself.  I would cut my throat, sir.”

“Pardon me, but is it too late at your time of life?”

“Yes, for my nerve is diseased and I am a coward, an infamous, doddering old coward, sir.  Good God! to live for years in darkness, bumping against the sharp corners of conscience.  I have never told Henry, but I don’t mind telling you that at times I am almost mad.  For years I have sought to read myself out of it, but to an unsettled mind a book is a sly poison—­the greatest of books are but the records of trouble.  Don’t you say a word to Henry.  He thinks that my mind is as sound as a new acorn, but it isn’t.”

“I won’t—­but, by the way, he is young; why don’t you advise him to kill himself?”

The old fellow flounced off the sofa and stood bulging his eyes at DeGolyer.

“Don’t you ever say such a thing as that again!” he snorted.  “Why, confound your hide! would you have that boy dead?”