“That thar air the ’leven o’clock train, I reckon,” said Mark, making his cautious way among the bowlders and fragments of fallen rock to the door of the house. The horse plucked up spirit to neigh gleefully at the sight of his shanty and the thought of his supper. The sound brought Mrs. Yates to the window of the cabin.
“Air that ye a-comin’, Mark?” she asked.
“It air me an’ Cockleburr,” replied her son, with an effort to be cheerful too, and to cast away gloomy thoughts in the relief of being once more at home.
“Air ye ez drunk ez or’nary?” demanded his mother.
This was a damper. “I ain’t drunk nohow in the worl’,” said Mark, sullenly.
“Whyn’t ye stay ter the still, then, till ye war soaked?” she gibed at him.
Mark dismounted in silence; there was no saddle to be unbuckled, and Cockleburr walked at once into the little shed to munch upon a handful of hay and to dream of corn.
His master, entering the house, was saluted by the inquiry, “War Painter Brice ez drunk ez common?”
“No, he warn’t drunk nuther.”