I reckon you can't get on to your rock-picking
in the fields now, but you really hadn't oughter dig up an oil-well
to-day anyway; it might kinder overshadow the excitement of the
party."
"Mr. Alloway, has any other survey of this river bend been made
before?" asked Everett as he looked keenly at Uncle Tucker, while he
lit his cigar from the cob pipe the old gentleman accommodatingly
handed him.
"Well, yes, there was a young fellow came poking around here not so
long ago with a little hammer pecking at the rocks. I didn't pay much
attention to him, though. He never stayed but one day, and I was
a-cutting clover hay, and too busy to notice him much 'cept to ask him
in to dinner. He couldn't seem to manage his chicken dumplings for
feeding his eyes with Rose Mary, and he didn't have time to give up
much information about sech little things as oil-wells and phosphate
beds. You know, they has to be a good touch of frost over a man's ears
before he can tend to business, with good-looking dimity passing
around him." And Uncle Tucker laughed as he resumed the puffing of his
pipe.
"And after the frost they are not at all immune--to such dimity,"
answered Everett with an echo of Uncle Tucker's laugh, as a slight
color rose up under the tan of his thin face. As he spoke he ruffled
his own dark red mop of hair, which was slightly sprinkled with gray,
over his temples. Everett was tall, broad and muscular, but thin
almost to gauntness, and his face habitually wore the expression of
deep weariness.
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