“So Aunt Martha has written me; and I’m glad of that, Gabriel. It is the only thing that reconciles me to his loss. But does he never think about his father? Does he never ask for him? Does he never want him? Tell me that, Gabriel.” “Well, he ain’t never asked ’is gran’father about ye more’n once, I reckon. I heard ’im ask once. An’ the way--well, never mind that. Ez ol’ Isra’l Pidgin use to say: ‘You can’t close up a crack by hammerin’ a wedge in it.’ But ef he’s asked me about ye once’t, he’s asked a hunderd times. He’ll come on ye sudden like, w’en ye ain’t expectin’ it, an’ fire away till you don’t know wuther you’re standin’ on your head or your feet. He come onto me once’t that way las’ fall in the potater patch. ‘Gabriel,’ says ’e, ‘w’at did my father go away fer?’ sez ’e. Well, now, I could ’a’ told ’im, an’ I couldn’t ’a’ told ’im, an’ I didn’t do nary one. ‘Did he an’ Gran’pap hev a quarrel?’ sez ’e. An’ bless my soul ef I knew w’at to say. I couldn’t go to fillin’ of ’im up with stuff about ’is gran’pap; an’ I hadn’t no warrant to do it, anyhow. I didn’t hear ye quarrel. ‘Don’t never tell fer a fact w’at ye ain’t willin’ to swear to,’ ez ol’ Isra’l Pidgin use to say. But I kin tell ye this, that ef they’s one thing in this world ’at that boy wants to hear about, an’ to talk about, an’ to hev about, it’s his father.” “Thank you, Gabriel. Thank you a thousand times for telling me that.” “Yes, an’ the most surprisin’ thing about it all is, w’at a lot of blamed ignoramuses we all be w’en he asks any of us anything about ye.” “I know you’re all very kind about it, Gabriel, and very wise and considerate. I’m sure he couldn’t be in better hands.” “Yes, your Aunt Marthy jest dotes on ’im.” “I’m certain of that. But it was a strange thing for him to do, Gabriel, to pull out that line of stakes. I came up the gap with him the night he did it. He wanted to tell me then. I’m sorry now I didn’t permit him to. It might have saved him a deal of suffering.” “Well, he’s taken it hard, I can tell ye. He ain’t the same boy he was six months ago. He couldn’t eat nor sleep nor rest, it worried ’im so. We all thought he was sick, he fell away that bad. Even your Aunt Marthy couldn’t do nothin’ fer ’im. But say, wa’n’t it grand, the way he come in there at the wind-up an’ told how things wuz; puffickly regardless of wuther he spent the nex’ six months in jail or no? There’s the Pickett grit fer ye!” “Gabriel, I think it was heroic.” And the tears sprang into Charlie Pickett’s eyes as he thought of that pathetic little figure facing the crowded court room, battling with his fear and conquering it, brave to the limit in the cause of conscience and of truth.