"I
ben in your maw's house jest a few weeks ago. 'Member the
horsehair sofa between the windows? 'Member the Bible on
the little marble-topped table? Eh? An' Tige? Well, Tige's
croaked; but your maw an' your paw ain't an' they want you
back, Eddie. I don't care ef you believe me, son, or not; but
your maw was mighty good to me, an' you promise me you'll
write her an' then go back home as fast as you can. It ain't
everybody's got a swell maw like that, an' them as has ought
to be good to 'em."
Beyond the closed door Eddie's jaw was commencing to
tremble. Memory was flooding his heart and his eyes with
sweet recollections of an ample breast where he used to pillow
his head, of a big capable hand that was wont to smooth his
brow and stroke back his red hair. Eddie gulped.
"You ain't joshin' me?" he asked. Billy Byrne caught the
tremor in the voice.
"I ain't kiddin' you son," he said. "Wotinell do you take
me fer--one o' these greasy Dagos? You an' I're Americans--
I wouldn't string a home guy down here in this here Godforsaken
neck o' the woods."
Billy heard the lock turn, and a moment later the door was
cautiously opened revealing Eddie safely ensconced behind
two six-shooters.
"That's right, Eddie," said Billy, with a laugh.
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