She was a lean, sharp-featured woman, with a hopeless droop to her shoulders.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Dickerson,” said Hiram, gravely. “How many young turkeys have you this year?”
The woman shrank back and almost dropped the kettle she had filled to the pump-bench. Her eyes glared.
Somewhere in the house a baby squatted; then a door banged and Hiram heard Dickerson's heavy step descending the stair.
“You have a coop of poults down there, Mrs. Dickerson,” continued Hiram, confidently, “that I know belongs to us. I traced Pete's tracks with the wagon and the white-footed horse. Now, this is going to make trouble for Pete——”
“What's the matter with Pete, now?” demanded Dickerson's harsh voice, and he came out upon the porch.
He scowled at sight of Hiram, and continued:
“What are you roaming around here for, Strong? Can't you keep on your own side of the fence?”
“It's little I'll ever trouble you, Mr. Dickerson,” said Hiram, “sharply, if you and yours don't trouble me, I can assure you.”
“What's eating you now?” demanded the man, roughly.