“Dammy,” said Mrs. Egg, “this is——­”

Adam stopped rolling a cigarette and nodded to the shadow by the hall door.  He said, “How you?  The boys told me you’d got here,” and licked the cigarette shut with a flash of his red tongue.  He struck a match on the blue coating of one lean thigh and lit the cigarette, then stared at the shadow.  Mrs. Egg hated the old man against reason as the tears slid down the dark face.

“Grain for the grim reaper’s sickle, daughter.  You’ll be wantin’ to talk to your boy.  I guess I’ll say good-night.”  He faded into the hall.

“Well, come, let’s see what there is to eat, Mamma,” said Adam, and pulled Mrs. Egg from her chair.

He sat on the low ice chest in the pantry and ate chocolate cake.  Mrs. Egg uncorked pear cider and reached, panting, among apple-jelly glasses.  Adam seldom spoke.  She didn’t expect talk from him.  He was sufficient.  He nodded and ate.  The tanned surface of his throat dimpled when he swallowed things.  His small nose wrinkled when he chewed.

Mrs. Egg chattered confusedly.  Adam grinned when she patted his smooth hair and once said “Get out!” when she paused between two kisses to assure him he was handsome.  He had his father’s doubts on the point perhaps.  He was not, she admitted, exactly beautiful.  He was Adam, perfect and hard as an oak trunk under his blue clothes.  He finished the chocolate cake and began to eat bread and apple jelly.

He ate six slices and drank a mug of pear cider, then crossed his legs and drawled, “Was a fellow on the Nevada they called Frisco Cooley.”

“What about him, Dammy?”

“Nothin’.  He was as tall as me.  Skinny, though.  Used to imitate actors in shows.  Got discharged in 1919.”

“Was he a nice boy, Dammy?”

“No,” said Adam, and reached for the pear-cider bottle.  He fell into his usual calm and drank another mug of cider.  Mrs. Egg talked of Edie Webb.  Adam grinned and kept his black eyes on the pantry ceiling.  The clock struck eleven.  He said, “They called him Frisco Cooley ’cause he came from San Francisco.  He could wrinkle his face up like a monkey.  He worked in a gamblin’ joint in San Francisco.  That’s him.”  Adam jerked a thumb at the ceiling.

“Dammy!”

“That’s him,” said Adam.  “It took me a time to think of him, but that’s him.”

Mrs. Egg fell back against the ice chest and squeaked:  “You mean you know this——­”

“Hush up, Mamma!”

“But he walked part the way from San Antonio.  He——­”

“He ain’t your father,” said Adam, “so don’t cry.  Is there any maple sugar?  The grub on the train was fierce.”

Mrs. Egg brought him the tin case of maple sugar.  Adam selected a chunk of the brown stuff and bit a lobe of it.  He was silent.  Mrs. Egg marvelled at him.  His sisters had hinted that he wasn’t clever.  She stood in awe, although her legs ached.  Adam finished the lump of maple sugar and rose.  He leaned on the shelves with his narrow waist curved against them and studied a row of quince-preserve jars.  His nose wrinkled.