The young fellow stood for an instant staring; then, with a wide, foolish grin of recognition, disappeared among the shadows within.
“Let the idjit be, Mink,” said old Griff, the miller, querulously,—“let him be.”
He was a man of sixty years, perhaps, and bending beneath their weight. His white beard was like a patriarch’s, and his long hair hung down to meet it. He had a parchment-like skin, corrugated, and seeming darker for the contrast with his hair and beard. Beneath his bushy white eyebrows, restless, irritable eyes peered out. He was barefooted, as was the boy, and his poverty showed further in the patches on his brown jeans clothes.
“Naw, I won’t,” said Mink irreverently. “I want ter see what Tad does when he skeets off an’ hides that-a-way.”
He pressed into the mill, and the old man looked after him and cursed him in his beard. He swore with every breath he drew.
“Go on, ye dad-burned fool—go on ter damnation! Ever sence that thar sneakin’ Mink hev been roun’ hyar,” he continued, addressing Price, “Tad ’pears weaker ’n ever. I can’t ’bide ter keep Tad in the house. He gits into one o’ his r-uproarious takin’s, an’ it looks like hell couldn’t hold him,—skeers the chill’n mighty nigh ter death. Yes, sir! my gran’chil’n. Daddy war shot by the revenuers, mammy died o’ the lung complaint, an’ the old man’s got ’em all ter take keer of—ten o’ ’em. An’ my nevy Tad, too, ez war born lackin’. An’ ev’y one of ’em’s got a stommick like a rat-hole—ye can’t fill it up. Yes, sir! The Lord somehows hev got his hand out in takin’ keer o’ me an’ mine, an’ he can’t git it in agin.”
“Waal, they holps ye mightily, plowin’ an’ sech, don’t they,—the biggest ones; an’ one o’ the gals kin cook, that thar spry one, ’bout fifteen year old; I’m a-goin’ ter wait fur her,—beats all the grown ones in the cove fur looks,” said the specious Jerry Price. “An’ they air all mighty good chill’n, ain’t they? Oughter be. Good stock.”
“Naw, sir; naw, sir!” the old man replied, so precipitately that his iterative mutter had the effect of interruption. “Durries’ meanes’ chill’n I ever see. Ripenin’ fur hell! Scandalous mean chill’n.”
“I reckon so,” said Rood suddenly. “Thar goes one o’ ’em now.” He pointed to a scapegrace ten years of age, perhaps, clad in a suit of light blue checked cotton. His trousers reached to his shoulder blades, and were sustained by a single suspender. A ragged old black hat was perched on the back of his tow head. He had the clothes-line tied to the hind leg of a pig which he was driving. He seemed to be in high feather, and apparently felt scant lack of a more spirited steed. In fact, the pig gave ample occupation to his skill, coming to a halt sometimes and rooting about in an insouciant manner, reckless of control. When he was pushed and thumped and forced to take up the line of march, he would squeal dolorously and set out at a rate of speed hardly predicable of the porcine tribe. “Look how he’s a-actin’ to that thar pore peeg,” added Rood.
Old Gus Griff fixed his dark eye upon him.