And I don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive."
"Wouldn't you like a mess of young squirrels?" Tom asked, as he sat down
in a hickory rocking chair. Of late he had become interested in Wash
Sanders, and had resented the neighbors' loss of confidence in him.
"Well, you might bring 'em if it ain't too much trouble, but I don't
believe I could eat 'em. Don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive."
He lifted his pale hand, and with his long finger nail scratched his
chin.
"What's the doctor's opinion?" Tom asked, not knowing what else to say
and feeling that at that moment some expression was justly demanded of
him.
"The doctors don't say anything now; they've given me up. From the first
they saw that I was a dead man. Last doctor that gave me medicine was a
fellow from over here at Gum Springs, and I wish I may die dead if he
didn't come in one of finishin' me right there on the spot."
There came a tap at a window that opened out upon the verandah, and the
young fellow, looking around, saw the girl sitting in the "best room."
She tried to put on the appearance of having accidentally attracted his
attention. He moved his chair closer to the window.
"How did you know I was in here?" she asked, looping back the white
curtain.
"I can always tell where you are without looking."
"Are you goin' to make fun of me again?"
"If I could even eat enough to keep a chicken alive I think I'd feel
better," said Wash Sanders, looking far off down the road.
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