Then the tall man asked:
"Call you what?"
"Gab. That's a divil of a name to call anybody. Last time I was
in here Cap'n Sam Hunniwell heard you call me that and I cal'lated
he'd die laughin'. Seemed to cal'late there was somethin'
specially dum funny about it. I don't call it funny. Say,
speakin' of Cap'n Sam, have you heard the news about him?"
He asked the question eagerly, because it was a part of what he
came there to ask. His eagerness was not contagious. The man on
the chair put down the blue brush, took up a fresh one, dipped it
in another paint pot and proceeded to garb another section of his
sailor in a spotless white shirt. Mr. Bearse grew impatient.
"Have you heard the news about Cap'n Sam?" he repeated. "Say,
Shavin's, have you?"
The painting went serenely on, but the painter answered.
"Well, Gab," he drawled, "I--"
"Don't call me Gab, I tell you. 'Tain't my name."
"Sho! Ain't it?"
"You know well enough 'tain't. My name's Gabriel. Call me that--
or Gabe. I don't like to be called out of my name. But say,
Shavin's--"
"Well, Gab, say it."
"Look here, Jed Winslow, do you hear me?"
"Yes, hear you fust rate, Gabe--now."
Mr. Bearse's understanding was not easily penetrated; a hint
usually glanced from it like a piece of soap from a slanting cellar
door, but this time the speaker's tone and the emphasis on the
"now" made a slight dent.
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