Gilbert went back to the table, leaned over, and put one hand affectionately on the old man’s shoulder.  “Now, Uncle,” he said, kindly, “what’s the use of going over all this again?  You know how I dislike it.”  He sat down and began to write again.  But Uncle Henry had not finished—­he had just started.

“What’s the use?” he wheezed.  “There’s lots of use.  Here you go an’ persuade me to sell the old home and buy this rotten ranch ’way down here in this God-forsaken country.  An’ just when I, like a darned old fool, take an’ do it, along comes the war an’ you enlist and leave me here with nothin’ but a lot of rotten cows!”

“But I left the foreman and the cook,” Gilbert reminded him.

A look of scorn came over Uncle Henry’s face, “Yes, ‘Red’ Giddings—­playin’ the harmonicky until I go almost crazy!  An’ a Mexican cook that can’t cook nothin’ but firecrackers!  An’ not even them when you want ’em!” He waited for this crowning touch to sink in.  Infuriated by Gilbert’s indifference, he swung around again in his chair.  “Say, ain’t we never goin’ to have no dinner?  I’m hungry!”

“I’m sorry,” was all Gilbert said.

Uncle Henry almost resorted to tears—­they were in his voice, at any rate.  “First you rob me an’ then you starve me!” he all but screamed.  “An’ the best you got to say is you’re sorry!”

Jones never looked up, as he continued to write.  “I did the best I could, Uncle.  You know that, of course.”

A remark like that always exasperates the hearer.  “If that’s yer best, I’d hate to see what yer worst is like,” the other flamed.  “An’ now we’re broke, an’ they’re goin’ to foreclose to-day!” he added.  “By golly, mebbe they’ve foreclosed already!”

“No, not till eight o’clock,” Gilbert’s passionless manner was maddening.

“Eight o’clock to-night?” his uncle cried, and leaned so far out of his chair that he was in danger of falling to the floor.

“Yes,” Gilbert said, calmly.

“You’re crazy!  Don’t you know yet that courts don’t stay open at night?” He swung about in his frenzy and disgust.

“This court does.  Somebody told the judge where he could get a bottle of liquor for eighteen dollars,” Gilbert added, and smiled.

“So if we don’t get ten thousand dollars there by eight o’clock to-night, we’re set out on the bricks without no more home than a prairie dog—­not as much!” almost screamed Uncle Henry.  “An’ yet you say why talk about it?”

“But it isn’t getting us anywhere—­just to sit around and complain,” his nephew tried to pacify him, rising, and starting toward him again; but Uncle Henry didn’t want to be so near him, knowing what he was going to say next.  Therefore he switched adroitly to the door, and let out, “No, it ain’t gettin’ us anywhere; but it would if you’d marry Angela Hardy, like I want you to!” He was a little frightened now that he had uttered the words, and he looked anxiously at Gilbert to see their effect.  The latter remained as calm as ever.  “But I don’t love her,” was all he said.