Man, I served Mas' Hymen han' an' foot,
wet an' dry, an' look like he las' anudder twenty year."
"You mean to say that I--that you, I mean--"
"Dat's so," put in Scipio, nodding cheerfully, while the
stained-glass windows flung flecks of red and blue on his honest
ebony features. "An' Cai Tamblyn all de while no better'n a fool.
'_Him_,' he'd sneer, not playin' up, but pullin' his cross face.
Dat's a lesson if ebber dere was one. Cai Tamblyn left with fifty,
an' me with three time fifty. 'To my faithful servant, Scipio
Johnson. . . .' And so Miss Marty, when it came to choose, took me
on--Scipio Johnson, Esquire, of this Parish--and Cai Tamblyn no more
than 'Mister,' nor ebber a hope of it."
The Major found himself in the churchyard, staring at a headstone.
He did not remember the stone, yet it seemed by no means a new one.
Weather-stains ran down the lettering and lichen spotted it.
He read the name. It was the name of a man whom he had left hale and
young--a promising corporal.
He made his way back slowly to the hospital, leaning heavily on his
stick. Strange shrill noises brought him to a halt on the threshold.
They came from the back of the house.
At the sound of his wooden leg in the brick passage, Cai Tamblyn
thrust his head out from the kitchen doorway.
"You come in," said he. "Please the Lord, the worst is over; but I
had to tell her."
"Her?" echoed the Major in bewilderment.
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