Foster sat in his wheeled
chair in his own room. He was knitting. The past year or two had brought
knitting-needles into countenance for men, and he saw no reason why he
should not put a few hanks of yarn into shape useful for himself. He might
not have full command of his limbs nor of his eyes, but he did have full
command of his fingers. He had begun to knit socks for his own use; and
even a muffler, in the hope that on some occasion, during the coming
months, he might get outside.
As Randolph entered, Foster looked up from under his green shade with an
expression of perplexity. "Have I dropped a stitch here or not?" he asked.
"I wish you knew something about knitting; I don't like to call Medora or
one of the girls away up here to straighten me out. Look; what do you
think?"
"They count all right," said Randolph; and he sat down on the couch
opposite. "I've brought a book."
"I hope it's poetry!" said Foster, with a fierce promptness. "I hope it's
about Adonis, or Thammuz, whose mishap 'in Lebanon' set all the Syrian
females a-going. I could stand a lot more of that,--or perhaps I couldn't!"
"Why, Joe, what's gone wrong?"
"I suppose you know that your young friend got up a great to-do for us the
other evening?"
"Yes; I've heard something about it.
Pages:
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155