“Hold the durn lamp,” the patriarch snapped to the son who tried to hand him the instrument. While Bowsmith clasped his hands and watched the Baron in nervous hopefulness, the remainder of the Neill clan eyed the boy sidelong and whispered at the edge of the lighted circle.
Baron Neill unfolded the document carefully and held it high so that the lamp illuminated the writing from behind his shoulder. Smoke dribbled from his nostrils in short puffs as his teeth clenched on the stem of his pipe.
When the Baron lowered the receipt, he removed the pipe from his mouth. His eyes were glaring blank fury, but his tongue said only, “I wonder, boy, effen yer Mister Nathan warn’t funnin’ ye along. This paper he give ye, hit don’t hev word one on it. Hit’s jist Babel.”
One of the younger Neills took the document which the Baron held spurned at his side. Three of the others crowded closer and began to argue in whispers, one of them tracing with his finger the words written in sepia ink beneath the receipt.
“Well, they hain’t words, Bar’n,” said the boy, surprised that he knew something which the other man—any other man, he might have said—did not. “I mean, not like we’d speak. Mister Nathan, he said what he writ out wuz the sounds, so’s I didn’t hev occasion t’ be consarned they wuz furrin words.”
Baron Neill blinked, as shocked to hear a reasoned exposition from Simp Bowsmith as the boy was to have offered it. After momentary consideration, he decided to treat the information as something he had known all the time. “Leave thet be!” he roared, whirling on the cluster of his offspring poring over the receipt.
Two of the men were gripping the document at the same time. Both of them released it and jumped back, bumping their fellows and joggling the lantern dangerously. They collided again as they tried unsuccessfully to catch the paper before it fluttered to the board floor.
The Baron cuffed the nearer and swatted at the other as well, missing when the younger man dodged back behind the shelter of his kin. Deliberately, his agitation suggested only by the vehemence of the pull he took on his pipe, the old man bent and retrieved the document. He peered at it again, then fixed his eyes on Bowsmith. “You say you’re t’ speak the words on this. Would thet be et some particular time?”
“No sir,” said the boy, bobbing his head as if in an effort to roll ideas to the surface of his mind. “Not thet Mister Nathan told me.”
As Baron Neill squinted at the receipt again, silently mouthing the syllables which formed no language of which he was cognizant, Bowsmith added, “Jist t’ set down with the bullhide over my back, en t’ speak out the words. En I’m ez strong ez a bull.”
“Give him another pull on the jug,” the Baron ordered abruptly.
“I don’t—” Bowsmith began as three Neills closed on him, one offering the jug with a gesture as imperious as that of a highwayman presenting his pistol.
“Boy,” the Baron continued, “I’m going t’ help ye, jist like you said. But hit’s a hard task, en ye’ll hev t’ bear with me till I’m ready. Ain’t like reg’lar readin’, this parsin’ out things ez ain’t words.”
He fixed the boy with a fierce glare which was robbed of much of its effect because the lamp behind him threw his head into bald silhouette. “Understand?”
“Yessir.”
“Drink my liquor, boy,” suggested the man with the jug. “Hit’ll straighten yer quill for sure.”
“Yessir.”
“Now,” Baron Neill went on, refolding the receipt and sliding it into the pocket of his own blue frock coat, “you set up with the young folks, hev a good time, en we’ll make ye up a bed with us fer the night. Meanwhiles, I’m goin’ down t’ the barn t’ study this over so’s I kin help ye in the mornin’.”
“Oh,” said Bowsmith in relief, then coughed as fumes of the whiskey he had just drunk shocked the back of his nostrils. “Lordy,” he muttered, wheezing to get his breath. “Lordy!”
One of the Neills thumped him hard on the back and said, “Chase thet down with another, so’s they fight each other en leave you alone.”