“Why, honey, don’t you want Lance home? He rode Coaley––but that’s no crime. Lance wouldn’t hurt him, he’s too good a rider and he never was hard on horses. And Coaley just goes wild when he has to stand shut up all day––”
“Oh, it ain’t riding Coaley, altogether. He can ride Coaley and be darned. It’s the new airs he’s putting on that don’t set good with me, Belle. You wanted to make something of Lance, and now, by Henry, you’ll have to name the job you’ve made of him––I’d hate to!”
Belle put a hand into the cheeping huddle in her hat, lifted out a chick and held it to her cheek. “Why, you’re just imagining that Lance is different,” she contended, stifling her own recognition of the change. “He’ll settle right down amongst the boys––”
“The boys ain’t cryin’ to have him, Belle. Black Rimmers had ought to stay Black Rimmers, or get out and stay out. Lance ain’t either one thing or the other.”
“Why, Tom Lorrigan!” Belle dropped the chick into her hat and tucked the hat under her arm. Her eyes began to sparkle a little. “I 275 don’t think Lance liked it about the piano, but he’s the same Lance he always was. I’ve watched him, and he hasn’t said a thing or done a thing outa the way––he’s just the dearest great big fellow! And I can’t for the life of me see why you and the whole outfit hang back from him like he was a stranger. Education ain’t catching, Tom. And Lance don’t put on any airs at all, so why in the name of heaven you all––”
“Well, well, don’t get all excited, Belle. But if education was ketching, a lot of the boys would be rollin’ their beds. I’m going to town. Anything yuh want brought out?”
Belle did not answer. She went away to the house with her hatful of chicks, and put them into a box close to the stove until the mother hen made sure whether the four other eggs were anything more than just stale eggs. It would have been hard for Belle to explain just what the heaviness in her heart portended. Certainly it was not in her nature to worry over trifles,––yet these were apparent trifles that worried her. On the surface of the Devil’s Tooth life only faint ripples stirred, but Belle felt somehow as though she were floating in a frail boat over a quiet pool from whose depths some unspeakable monster might presently thrust an ominous head and drag her under.
In the crude yet wholly adequate bathroom she heard a great splashing, and guessed that it was Lance, refreshing himself after his trip. That, 276 she supposed, was another point that set him apart from the other boys. From June to September, whenever any of the male inhabitants of the Devil’s Tooth felt the need of ablutions beyond the scope of a blue enamel wash basin, he took a limp towel and rode down across the pasture to the creek, and swam for half an hour or so in a certain deep pool. Sometimes all of the boys went, at sundown, and filled the pool with their splashings. Only Lance availed himself of tub and soap and clean towels, and shaved every morning before breakfast.
She heard him moving about in his room, heard him go into the kitchen and ask Riley what the chances were for something to eat. She did not follow him, but she waited, expecting that he would come into the living room afterwards. She went to the piano and drummed a few bars of a new dance hit Lance had brought home for her, and with her head turned sidewise listened to the sound of his footsteps in the next room, his occasional, pleasantly throaty tones answering Riley’s high-pitched, nasal twang.
Her eyes blurred with unreasoning tears. He was her youngest. He was so big, so handsome, so like Tom,––yet so different! She did not believe that Tom could really see anything to cavil at in Lance’s presence, in his changed personality. Tom, she thought, was secretly as proud of Lance as she was, and only pretended to sneer at him to 277 hide that pride. The constraint would soon wear off, and Lance would be one of the boys again.