He looked more like
some old-fashioned college professor than he did like a smith.
The old gunsmith had that pride of humility which is about the best
pride in this world. He was perfectly at home at the Scotch Preacher's
hearth. Indeed, he radiated a sort of beaming good will; he had a native
desire to make everything pleasant. I did not realize before what a fund
of humour the old man had. The Scotch Preacher rallied him on the number
of houses he now owns, and suggested that he ought to get a wife to keep
at least one of them for him. Carlstrom looked around with a twinkle in
his eye.
"When I was a poor man," he said, "and carried boxes from Ketchell's
store to help build my first shop, I used to wish I had a wheelbarrow.
Now I have four. When I had no house to keep my family in, I used to
wish that I had one. Now I have four. I have thought sometimes I would
like a wife--but I have not dared to wish for one."
The old gunsmith laughed noiselessly, and then from habit, I suppose,
began to hum as he does in his shop--stopping instantly, however, when
he realized what he was doing.
During the evening the Scotch Preacher got me to one side and said:
"David, we can't let the old man go.
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