He had Nate’s coat thrown over his arm, and he shouldered his brother’s rifle.
Tim came slouching slowly into the tanyard, a good-natured grin on his face. He paused only to knock Rufe’s hat over his eyes, as the small boy stood in front of the low-spirited mule, both hands busy with the animal’s mouth, striving to open his jaws to judge by his teeth how old he might be.
“The critter’ll bite ye, Rufe!” Birt exclaimed, for as Rufe stooped to pick up his hat the mule showed some curiosity in his turn, and was snuffling at Rufe’s hay-colored hair.
Rufe readjusted his head-gear, and ceasing his impolite researches into the mule’s age, came up to the other two boys. Tim had paused by the shed, and leaning upon the rifle, began to talk.
“I war a-passin’ by, an’ I thought I’d drap in on ye.”
“Hev you-uns hearn from Nate since he hev been gone away?” demanded Birt anxiously.
“He hev come home,” responded Tim.
“When did he git home?” Birt asked with increasing suspicion.
“Las’ week,” said Tim carelessly.
Another problem! Why had Nate not communicated with his partner about their proposed work? It seemed a special avoidance.