“Who was the boy?” Colonel Lamson asked the lawyer, as the three men proceeded.

“The Edwards boy.”

“Well,” said John Jennings, “’tis an unlucky devil he is, call him what you will, for he’s born to feel the hammer of Thor on his soul as well as his flesh, and it is double pain for all such.”

Jerome stood staring after John Jennings and his friends a moment; he had not the least conception what it all meant; then he proceeded at a good pace, arguing that the sooner he got home and told his mother and had it over, the better.

But he had not gone far before he saw some one else coming, a strange, nondescript figure, with outlines paled and blurred in the moonlight, looking as if it bore its own gigantic and heavy head before it in outstretched arms.  Soon he saw it was his uncle Ozias Lamb, laden with bundles of shoes about his shoulders, bending forward under their weight.

Ozias halted when he reached Jerome.  “Hullo!” said he; “that you?”

“Yes, sir,” Jerome replied, deferentially.  He had respect for his uncle Ozias.

“Where you goin’?”

“Home.”

“’Ain’t you been to Robinson’s for shoes?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where be they, then?”

Jerome told him.

“I ain’t surprised.  I knew what ’twould be when I heard you’d fit ’Lisha,” said Ozias.  “You hit my calf, you hit me.  It’s natur’.”  Ozias gave a cynical chuckle; he shifted his load of shoes to ease his right shoulder. “’Lisha’s big as two of you,” he said.  “How’d ye work it to fling him?  Twist your leg under his, eh?”

Jerome nodded.

“That’s a good trick.  I larnt that when I was a boy.  Well, I ain’t surprised Robinson has shet down on the shoes.  What ye goin’ to do?”

“Dun’no’,” replied Jerome; then he gave a weak, childish gesture, and caught his breath in a sob.  He was scarcely more than a child, after all, and his uncle Ozias was the only remaining natural tower to his helplessness.

“O Lord, don’t ye go to whimperin’, big man like you!” responded Ozias Lamb, quickly.  “Look at here—­” Ozias paused a moment, pondering.  Jerome waited, trying to keep the sobs back.

“Tell you what ’tis,” said Ozias.  “It’s one of the cases where the sarpents and the doves come in.  We’ve got to do a little manoeuvrin’.  Don’t you fret, J’rome, an’ don’t you go to frettin’ of your mother.  I’ll take an extra lot of shoes from Cy Robinson; he can think Belinda’s goin’ to bind—­she never has—­or he can think what he wants to; I ain’t goin’ to regulate his thinkin’; an’ you come to me for shoes in future.  Only you keep dark about it.  Don’t you let on to nobody, except your mother, an’ she needn’t know the whys an’ wherefores.  I’ve let out shoes before now.  I’ll pay a leetle more than Robinson.  Tell her your uncle Ozias has taken all the shoes Robinson has got, and you’re to come to him for ’em, an’ to keep dark about it, an’ let her think what she’s a mind to.  Women folks can’t know everything.”