“Yoo-hoo!”
The musical call from outside cut short his monologue. In three strides he was at the door. At the edge of the road stood Marion. On the sand at her feet rested a sack in which something was tumbling about.
“Don’t you never put down that gun, even when you’re into the house?” she asked as he crossed the grass-ground. He looked foolishly down at the forgotten weapon, still gripped loosely in one hand. Without awaiting an answer, she went on: “But you need it, I shouldn’t wonder. Are you a-goin’ to stay here now, after—after what come to pop?”
“Yep. Going to sit up to-night and see what will happen.”
She contemplated him soberly, then looked down at the bag.
“I figgered that’s what you’d do. I—I wish you wouldn’t. But I brought down some company, like I promised. This here is Spit.”
As if answering to its name, the moving thing in the sack vented a catty spitting sound.
“You’ll want to shut the door and the winders, if there’s any open, ’fore you untie his bag,” she cautioned. “He’s wild, and he’ll go like a shot if there’s any way outen the house.”
“I’ll take care of him. Why do you wish I wouldn’t stay here?”
She flushed a little, looked at him, dropped her eyes again and stirred the sand with a foot.