Ander and a short, heavy-set man entered, and the latter laid a number of parcels on the table. He had a jolly round red face with crow’s-feet about the corners of brown eyes, stamped there by much smiling. It was said of Jim Peeler that he had never been known to lose his temper. He stood a short rifle in a corner and sat down near the table. Mrs. Declute arose and brought a steaming teapot from the hearth, also a plate of bread and cold meat.
After disposing of a goodly portion of the victuals before him, Jim turned to Gloss with the question:
“How’s the sick?”
“No better,” answered Gloss, her face growing grave.
“Dear me, how thinkless I am!” exclaimed Mrs. Declute. “I knowed there was somethin’ I wanted to ask you, Gloss. That’s it. How’s th’ dear little woman?”
Ander was cutting off a piece of black chewing-tobacco from a big slab.
“Why don’t you tell old Betsy ’bout her, Glossie?” he asked.
“Shet up, Ander,” flashed his wife. “Be you a Christian, or be you a heathen as believe in witches?”
“There, there,” laughed Peeler soothingly, “I guess Ander is a good Christian. But I was talkin’ to a real Christian to-day; a real pious, right-down good man.”
“Smythe?” questioned Declute, the piece of tobacco poised half-way to its expectant goal.