"Well, I'll be hanged!" says he. "Bladen, I didn't think it was in you. I took you for one of the milksop kind; which shows just how big a fool an old fool can be. And Edith is right. I'm a crazy, quarrelsome old wretch. It isn't all rheumatism, either. Some of it is disposition. And don't you go away thinking I've been generous, trying to tie you two young people down this way. It was rank selfishness. But you don't know how hard it comes, being shut up like this and able only to move around on wheels--after the life I've led too! I suppose I ought to be satisfied. I've had my share--nearly thirty years on the go, in jungle, forest, mountains, all over the globe. I've hunted big game in every--but you know all about that. And now I suppose I'm worn out, useless. I was trying to get used to it, and having you young folks around has helped a lot. But it hasn't been fair to you--not fair." He sort of chokes up at the end, and his lower lip trembles some; but only for a second. He straightens up once more in his chair. "You must try to make allowances, Edith," he goes on. "Don't--don't hate the old wretch too hard!" That got to her, all right. She' wa'n't gush all the way through, any more'n Uncle Jeff was all crust. Next thing he knew she was givin' him the fond tackle and sobbin' against his vest. "There, there!" says he, pattin' her soothin'. "We all make our mistakes, old and young; only us old fellows ought to know better." "But--but they aren't daubs!" sobs out Edith. "And--and you said they were, without even seeing them." "Just like me," says he. "And I'm no judge, anyway. But perhaps I'd better take a look at some of them. How would that be, eh? Couldn't Tupper bring a couple of them down now?" "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!"