LITMIR.BIZ

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him at school so long when he orter been at work. He did [p26] git a job in a newspaper office over at Coreyville not long ’fore he was took sick. They tell me he’s as slick as a onion about newspaper work.”

      Continued silence; but Jimmy boldly cast another fly:

      “Last funeral we had was Mrs. Tucker’s, wasn’t it? Old man Tucker was there to-day. Crape band on his hat is climbin’ up; it’ll be at high mast ag’in soon.”

      Dense, nerve-racking silence; but Jimmy made one more effort:

      “The Opps are coming back here tonight to talk things over before Ben goes on to Missouri. He counts on ketchin’ the night boat. It won’t give him much time, will it?”

      But Mrs. Fallows, unrelaxed, stared fixedly before her; she had taken refuge in that most trying of all rejoinders, silence, and the fallible Jimmy, who waxed strong and prospered upon abuse, drooped and languished under this new and cruel form of punishment.

      It was not until a buggy stopped at the [p27] door, and the Opp brothers descended, that the tension was in any way relieved.

      Jimmy greeted them with the joy of an Arctic explorer welcoming a relief party.

      “Come right on in here, in the office,” he cried hospitably; “your talkin’ won’t bother me a speck.”

      But Ben abruptly expressed his desire for more private quarters, and led the way up-stairs.

      The low-ceiled room into which he ushered D. Webster was of such a depressing drab that even the green and red bed-quilt failed to disperse the gloom. The sole decoration, classic in its severity, was a large advertisement for a business college, whereon an elk’s head grew out of a bow of ribbon, the horns branching and rebranching into a forest of curves and flourishes.

      The elder Opp took his seat by the window, and drummed with impatient fingers on the sill. He was small, like his brother, but of a compact, sturdy build. His chin, instead of dwindling to a point, was square and stubborn, and his eyes [p28] looked straight ahead at the thing he wanted, and neither saw nor cared for what lay outside. He had been trying ever since leaving the cemetery to bring the conversation down to practical matters, but D. Webster, seizing the first opportunity of impressing himself upon his next of kin, had persisted in indulging in airy and time-destroying flights of fancy.

      The truth is that our Mr. Opp was not happy. In his secret heart he felt a bit apologetic before the material success of his elder brother. Hence it was necessary to talk a great deal and to set forth in detail the very important business enterprises upon which he was about to embark.

      Presently Ben Opp looked at his watch.

      “See here,” he interrupted, “that boat may be along at any time. We’d better come to some decision about the estate.”

      D. Webster ran his fingers through his hair, which stood in valiant defense of the small bald spot behind it.

      “Yes, yes,” he said; “business is [p29] business. I’ll have to be off myself the very first thing in the morning. This funeral couldn’t have come at a more unfortunate time for me. You see, my special territory—”

      But Ben saw the danger of another bolt, and checked him:

      “How much do you think the old house is worth?”

      D. Webster drew forth his shiny note-book and pencil and made elaborate calculations.

      “I should say,” he said, as one financier to another, “that including of the house and land and contents of same, it would amount to the whole sum total of about two thousand dollars.”

      “That is about what I figured,” said Ben; “now, how much money is in the bank?”

      D. Webster produced a formidable packet of letters and papers from his inside pocket and, after some searching, succeeded in finding a statement, which set forth the fact that the Ripper County Bank held in trust one thousand dollars, [p30] to be divided between the children of Mary Opp Moore at the death of her husband, Curtis V. Moore.

      “One thousand dollars!” said Ben, looking blankly at his brother, “Why, for heaven’s sake, what have Mr. Moore and Kippy been living on all these years?”

      D. Webster moved uneasily in his chair. “Oh, they’ve managed to get along first rate,” he said evasively.

      His brother looked at him narrowly. “On the interest of a thousand dollars?” He leaned forward, and his face hardened: “See here, have you been putting up cash all this time for that old codger to loaf on? Is that why you have never gotten ahead?”

      D. Webster, with hands in his pockets and his feet stretched in front of him, was blinking in furious embarrassment at the large-eyed elk overhead.

      “To think,” went on Ben, his slow wrath rising, “of your staying here in Kentucky all these years and handing out what you made to that old sponger. [p31] I cut loose and made a neat little sum, married, and settled down. And what have you done? Where have you gotten? Anybody that would let himself be imposed upon like that deserves to fail. Now what do you propose to do about this money?”

      Mr. Opp did not propose to do anything. The affront offered his business sagacity was of such a nature that it demanded all his attention. He composed various denunciatory answers with which to annihilate his brother. He hesitated between two courses, whether he should hurl himself upon him in righteous indignation and demand physical satisfaction, or whether he should rise in a calm and manly attitude and wither him with blighting sarcasm. And while the decision was pending, he still sat with his hands in his pockets, and his feet stretched forth, and blinked indignantly at the ornate elk.

      “The estate,” continued Ben, contempt still in his face, “amounts at most to three thousand dollars, after the house [p32] is sold. Part of this, of course, will go to the maintenance of Kippy.”

      At mention of her name, Mr. Opp’s gaze dropped abruptly to his brother’s face.

      “What about Kippy? She’s going to live with you, ain’t she?” he asked anxiously.

      Ben Opp shook his head emphatically. “She certainly is not. I haven’t the slightest idea of burdening myself and family with that feeble-minded girl.”

      “But see here,” said Mr. Opp, his anger vanishing in the face of this new complication, “you don’t know Kippy; she’s just similar to a little child, quiet and gentle-like. Never give anybody any trouble in her life. Just plays with her dolls and sings to herself all day.”

      “Exactly,” said Ben; “twenty-five years old and still playing with dolls. I saw her yesterday, dressed up in all sorts of foolish toggery, talking to her hands, and laughing. Aunt Tish humors her, and her father humored her, but I’m not going to. I feel sorry for her [p33] all right, but I am not going to take her home with me.”

      D. Webster nervously twisted the large seal ring which he wore on his forefinger. “Then what do you mean,” he said hesitatingly—“what do you want to do about it?”

      “Why, send her to an asylum, of course. That’s where she ought to have been all these years.”

      Mr. Opp, sitting upon the small of his back, with one leg wrapped casually about the leg of the chair, stared at him for a moment in consternation, then, gathering himself together, rose and for the first time since we have met him seemed completely to fill his checked ready-made suit.

      “Send Kippy to a lunatic asylum!” he said in tones so indignant that they made his chin tremble. “You will do nothing whatever of the kind! Why, all she’s ever had in the world was her pa and Aunt Tish and her home; now he’s gone, you ain’t wanting to take the others away from her too, are you?”

      [p34]

      “Well, who is going to take care of her?” demanded Ben angrily.

      “I am,” announced D. Webster, striking as fine an attitude as ever

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