When we turned to go towards the house
again, a man lounged out of the trees towards us. He looked at me, then
at Roscoe, and said:
"I'm Phil Boldrick's pal from Danger Mountain." Roscoe held out his hand,
and the man took it, saying: "You're The Padre, I suppose, and Phil was
soft on you. Didn't turn religious, did he? He always had a streak of God
A'mighty in him; a kind of give-away-the-top-of-your-head chap; friend o'
the widow and the orphan, and divvy to his last crust with a pal. I got
your letter, and come over here straight to see that he's been tombed
accordin' to his virtues; to lay out the dollars he left me on the people
he had on his visitin' list; no loafers, no gophers, not one; but to them
that stayed by him I stay, while prog and liquor last."
I saw Roscoe looking at him in an abstracted way, and, as he did not
reply, I said: "Phil had many friends and no enemies." Then I told him
the tale of his death and funeral, and how the valley mourned for him.
While I spoke he stood leaning against a tree, shaking his head and
listening, his eyes occasionally resting on Roscoe with a look as
abstracted and puzzled as that on Roscoe's face.
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