She delivered a message to
Wilkins, exchanged a few words with us, and galloped off.
"Goes faster than she came," said Ajax.
"Yes," said Wilkins. Then he added, with emphasis: "I don't blame any
girl from galloping away from such a hole as this." With a derisive
glance he indicated the flies swarming about his pots and pans, the
ill-trimmed lamp reeking of petroleum, the rough bunk wherein he
slept, the rusty stove. We contrasted these sordid surroundings with
the splendours of Silas Upham's front parlour, and then we stared
furtively at Wilkins.
About a week later Wilkins supped with us. Warmed by good food and
drink, his reserve concerning himself somewhat melted. We learned that
he had been but two weeks in Upham's service, that he had worked his
passage down the coast from Vancouver to San Francisco.
"And how do you like the Uphams?" said Ajax.
The use of the plural provoked a slight smile.
"Naturally, I don't see much of them," said Wilkins.
He picked up an old photograph album, and began to turn over its
pages. Obviously, his thoughts were elsewhere; and the sound of his
own voice must have startled him.
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