“Oh, may he?” says Edith, brightenin’ up and turnin’ off the sprayer.  “I have wished that you could see them, you know.”

So Tupper is sent for a couple of paintings, and Brooks chases along to bring down two more.  They ranges ’em on chairs, and wheels Uncle Jeff into a good position.  He squints at ’em earnest and tries hard to work up some enthusiasm.

“Ferryboats, sugar refineries, and the North River,” says he.  “All looks natural enough.  I suppose they’re well done too; but—­but see here, young man, couldn’t you find anything better to paint?”

“Where?” says Brooks.  “You see, I was able to get out only occasionally without——­”

“I see,” says Uncle Jeff.  “Tied to a cranky old man in a wheel chair.  But, by George!  I could take you to places worth wasting your paint on.  Ever heard of Yangarook?  There’s a pink mountain there that rises up out of a lake, and on still mornings—­well, you ought to see it!  I pitched my camp there once for a fortnight.  I could find it again.  You go in from Boola Bay, up the Zambesi, and through the jungle.  Then there’s the Khula Klaht valley.  That’s in the Himalayas.  Pictures?  Why, you could get ’em there!”

“I’ve no doubt I could, Sir,” says Brooks.  “I’ve dreamed of doing something like that some day, too.  But what’s the use?”

“Eh?” says Uncle Jeff, almost standin’ up in his excitement.  “Why not, my boy?  I could take you there, chair or no chair.  Didn’t I go in a litter once, halfway across Africa, when a clumsy Zulu beater let a dying rhino gore me in the hip?  Yes, and bossed a caravan of sixty men, and me flat on my back!  I’m better able to move now than I was then, too.  And I’m ready to try it.  Another year of this, and I’d be under the ground.  I’m sick of being cooped up.  I’m hungry for a breath of mountain air, for a glimpse of the old trails.  No use taking my guns; but you could lug along your painting kit, and Edith could take care of both of us.  We could start within a week.  What do you say, you two?”

Brooks he looks over at Edith.  “Oh, Uncle Jeff!” says she, her eyes sparklin’.  “I should just love it!”

“I could ask for nothing better,” says Brooks.

“Then it’s settled,” says Uncle Jeff, reachin’ out a hand to each of ’em.  “Hurrah for the long trail!  We’re off!”

“Me too,” says I, “if that’s all.”

“Ah!” says Uncle Jeff.  “Our young friend who’s at the bottom of the whole of this.  Here, Sir!  I’m going to teach you a lesson that will make you cautious about gossiping with strange old men.  Pick up that leopard skin at your feet.”

“Yes, Sir,” says I, holdin’ it out to him.

“No, examine it carefully,” says he.  “That came from a beast I shot on the shores of Lake Tanganyika.  It’s the finest specimen of the kind in my whole collection.  Throw it over your arm, you young scamp, and get along with you!”