IX
THE GUNSMITH
Harriet and I had the first intimation of what we have since called the
"gunsmith problem" about ten days ago. It came to us, as was to be
expected, from that accomplished spreader of burdens, the Scotch
Preacher. When he came in to call on us that evening after supper I
could see that he had something important on his mind; but I let him get
to it in his own way.
"David," he said finally, "Carlstrom, the gunsmith, is going home to
Sweden."
"At last!" I exclaimed.
Dr. McAlway paused a moment and then said hesitatingly:
"He _says_ he is going."
Harriet laughed. "Then it's all decided," she said; "he isn't going."
"No," said the Scotch Preacher, "it's not decided--yet."
"Dr. McAlway hasn't made up his mind," I said, "whether Carlstrom is to
go or not."
But the Scotch Preacher was in no mood for joking.
"David," he said, "did you ever know anything about the homesickness of
the foreigner?"
He paused a moment and then continued, nodding his great shaggy head:
"Man, man, how my old mither greeted for Scotland! I mind how a sprig of
heather would bring the tears to her eyes; and for twenty years I dared
not whistle "Bonnie Doon" or "Charlie Is My Darling" lest it break her
heart.
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