Wicks," said Dick, looking up from his work, "take a
seat. You want to see a proof of those letter-heads, I suppose. Jack,
take a proof of that stuff of Mr. Wicks'."
Uncle Bobbie sank, puffing, into a chair. "I jing. Wish't I didn't get
so fat. Quit smokin' about a month ago. Wife, she wanted me to.
To-be-sure, I don't care nothin' fer it nohow. Mighty mean habit too.
Where's your pipe?"
Dick smiled. "Oh, I haven't any now."
"Uh! took to smokin' segars, I reckon."
"No," said Dick, "I don't smoke at all."
"Oh." Uncle Bobbie looked long and thoughtfully at his young friend.
"To-be-sure, I don't, _much_.--But I told wife this mornin' I'd have
to begin agin if I don't quit gettin' so plaguey fat. D' ye reckon
it'd make me sick?"
Dick laughed. "You look rather fleshy," he said, encouragingly.
"Well, you're a good deal fatter yourself, than you were when I first
seen you," said Uncle Bobbie, looking him over with a critical eye.
"Yes," admitted Dick, "I guess I am; these are my fat years you know.
I'm getting to look at those lean ones as a very bad dream."
Dick's young helper handed them a proof-sheet, and after looking over
the work for a few moments, Mr. Wicks said: "That new Association meets
t'-night, don't it?" Dick nodded; and the old gentleman continued
carelessly, as he arose to go, "Stop fer me when you go by, will you?
An' we'll go down t'gether."
"But I'm not going," said Dick, quickly. Uncle Bobbie dropped back in
his seat with a jar and grasped the arms of his chair, as though about
to be thrown bodily to the ceiling.
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