Abner did not move, but his voice took on depth and volume.
"Wolf," he said, "a whim is sometimes a great lever to move a man. Now, I am taken with a whim myself. I have a fancy, Wolf, that your brother Adam ought to go out of the world barehanded as he came into it."
The old man twisted his great head, as though he would get Abner wholly within the sweep of his reptilian eye.
"What?" he gurgled. "What is that?"
"Why, this," replied my uncle. "I have a whim—'idle and ridiculous,' did you say, Wolf? Well, then, idle and ridiculous, if you like, that your brother ought not to be buried in his gloves."
Abner looked hard at the man and, although he did not move, the threat and menace of his presence seemed somehow to advance him. And the effect upon the huge old man was like some work of sorcery. The whole mountain of him began to quiver and the folds of his face seemed spread over with thin oil. He sat piled up in the chair and the oily sweat gathered and thickened on him. His jaw jerked and fell into a baggy gaping and the great expanse of him worked as with an ague.
Finally, out of the pudgy, undulating mass, a voice issued, thin and shaken.
"Abner," it said, "has any other man this fancy?"
"No," replied my uncle, "but I hold it, Wolf, at your decision."
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