Anybody could cut wood;
and, besides, my wife was tired of supervising him, and had other
things to attend to. And, in short, days went by, and Irvine came
daily, and talked and lounged and spat; but the firewood remained
intact as sleepers on the platform or growing trees upon the
mountainside. Irvine, as a woodcutter, we could tolerate; but
Irvine as a friend of the family, at so much a day, was too bald an
imposition, and at length, on the afternoon of the fourth or fifth
day of our connection, I explained to him, as clearly as I could,
the light in which I had grown to regard his presence. I pointed
out to him that I could not continue to give him a salary for
spitting on the floor; and this expression, which came after a good
many others, at last penetrated his obdurate wits. He rose at
once, and said if that was the way he was going to be spoke to, he
reckoned he would quit. And, no one interposing, he departed.
So far, so good. But we had no firewood. The next afternoon, I
strolled down to Rufe's and consulted him on the subject. It was a
very droll interview, in the large, bare north room of the
Silverado Hotel, Mrs. Hanson's patchwork on a frame, and Rufe, and
his wife, and I, and the oaf himself, all more or less embarrassed.
Rufe announced there was nobody in the neighbourhood but Irvine who
could do a day's work for anybody.
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