Gilbert could have struck him; but he replied quietly:  “I’ll just put on my hat and I’ll be ready.”

But the literal-minded Hardy remarked: 

“Them crockery, and the rugs?” pointing to the articles significantly.

“The rugs I’m presenting to a friend of mine.  The crockery goes to the cook.  He has a family, you know.”  His irony was lost on the imperturbable Hardy, who merely asked: 

“And you ain’t got anything more to say, Jones?” He watched him closely.

“Nothing of general interest.”

But Uncle Henry wasn’t going to let matters end here.

“I’ve got something to say,” he announced like an oracle.  “Your daughter wants to marry him!” He imagined this would prove a thunderbolt; but Hardy calmly asked: 

“How do you know that?”

“Because she told me, that’s how!  And if only the gol darn fool would do it like I want him to—­” He addressed himself suddenly to his nephew, who now stood on the other side of the table:  “Aw, come on.  Be a good feller, won’t you?”

Again this outlandish interfering on the part of Uncle Henry!  Was the old fellow losing his reason?  There was no privacy in their affairs—­everything was an open book to anyone who came to the adobe.  It was getting to be unbearable.  Gilbert had controlled himself long enough in the presence of others.  He was sick and tired of the old man’s meddling.

“Keep still!” he warned him, and shook his finger in his face, “Keep still, I say!” His cheeks were scarlet with rage.  The blood pounded in his veins.

The invalid never lost his courage.  “You won’t marry her?” was what he said.

“How can I, you—­you—­” Gilbert could scarcely stand it any longer.

“Gol darn, the gol darn—­” cried Uncle Henry; and then he swerved on Jasper Hardy:  “Maybe you can persuade him,” he suggested.

“Persuade him to what?”

“To marry her,” Smith brazenly said.

“I don’t want him to marry her,” the father was honest enough to say.

This had never occurred to Uncle Henry.  “What’s the matter with him?” he asked, his eyes opening wide in amazement.

“It would take too long to tell you.”  Hardy considered the argument closed; but Uncle Henry came right back again: 

“But he’s my nevyer!”

“That’s one of my main reasons,” Hardy cruelly announced; and the only come-back poor Uncle Henry had was an exasperated, “Oh, is that so!” drawled out peevishly, weakly.

“I want his ranch, not him,” Hardy went on.  He might have been discussing someone not in the room.

“But he’s a fine young feller, if I do say so!” Uncle Henry came to Gilbert’s rescue, after the manner of all relatives when an outsider steps in with criticism.

“Only a minute ago I heard you call him a gol darn fool!” Hardy triumphantly reminded him.

“There you are,” said Gilbert, addressing his uncle.  “That’s what you get—­”