In that enormous silence, life was waking.
Joy awoke in him, and exultation.
They had escaped from the prison of death; they were joined to the bright engine of life again.
Life, ruddered life, that would not fail, began its myriad embarkations.
A paper-boy came briskly, with the stiff hobbled limp that Eugene knew so well, down the centre of the street, hurling a blocked paper accurately upon the porch of the Brunswick.
As he came opposite Dixieland, he moved in to the curb, tossing his fresh paper with a careful plop.
He knew there was sickness in the house.
The withered leaves were shaking.
Eugene jumped to the sidewalk from the sodded yard.
He stopped the carrier.
“What’s your name, boy?” he said.
“Tyson Smathers,” said the boy, turning upon him a steady Scotch–Irish face that was full of life and business.
“My name is ‘Gene Gant.
Did you ever hear of me?”
“Yes,” said Tyson Smathers, “I’ve heard of you.
You had number 7.”
“That was a long time ago,” said Eugene, pompously, grinning.
“I was just a boy.”
In that enormous silence, birds were waking.
He thrust his hand into a pocket and found a dollar-bill.
“Here,” he said.
“I carried the damn things once.
Next to my brother Ben, I was the best boy they ever had.
Merry Christmas, Tyson.”
“It ain’t Christmas yet,” said Tyson Smathers.
“You’re right, Tyson,” said Eugene, “but it will be.”
Tyson Smathers took the money, with a puzzled, freckled grin.
Then he went on down the street, throwing papers.
The maples were thin and sere.
Their rotting leaves covered the ground.
But the trees were not leafless yet.
The leaves were quaking.
Some birds began to chatter in the trees.
Wind pressed the boughs, the withered leaves were shaking.
It was October.
As Luke and Eugene turned up the street toward town, a woman came out of the big brick house across the street, and over the yard toward them.
When she got near, they saw she was Mrs. Pert.
It was October, but some birds were waking.
“Luke,” she said fuzzily. “Luke?
Is it Old Luke?”
“Yes,” said Luke.
“And ‘Gene?
Is it old ‘Gene?”
She laughed gently, patting his hand, peering comically at him with her bleared oaken eyes, and swaying back and forth gravely, with alcoholic dignity.
The leaves, the withered leaves, were shaking, quaking.
It was October, and the leaves were shaking.
“They ran old Fatty away, ‘Gene,” she said.
“They won’t let her come in the house any more.
They ran her away because she liked Old Ben.
Ben.