"I'se--I'se afeard he'll be tough, Colonel Fairfax," he quavered.
"I--I--Gord-a-massy, Massa Dick, yoh wouldn't kill ol' Job? He's too
smart foh a bird an' he's done a most powahful sight o' runnin', sah; I
reckons he's mos' all muscle."
There was an agonized appeal in the darky's voice that cut straight to
the Colonel's heart. "Uncle Noah," he said kindly, "it can't be
helped. Job goes for the sake of--someone else."
"Ol' Missus?"
"Yes. Thank God, Uncle Noah," the Colonel laid a gentle hand on the
negro's shoulder, "that she doesn't know of our--er--financial
crisis"--his halting utterance showed how distasteful the words were to
him--"save, of course, that we must live with economy, as we have for
years. Of the catastrophe of last fall she is ignorant, and a Fairfax
Christmas without a turkey would--she must not know," he finished
abruptly.
The Colonel had spoken with a simple dignity and confidence that
brought the old negro back from the field of sentiment to the barren
desert of reality. Dimly in his mental chaos stood forth three
pitiless facts: "Ol' Missus" was grieving her heart out for the son
with whom the Colonel had quarreled three years before; of this money
trouble from which Colonel Fairfax had shielded her she must as yet
know nothing; and there was no turkey for the Christmas dinner.
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