“'Twar jes' the dep'ty critter, Clem Tweed,” explained Medora, “mighty joki-fied, an' he 'peared ter be middlin' drunk, an' though he said su'thin' 'bout exemptions he 'lowed ez we-uns lived at the eend o' the world.”
Her mother-in-law suddenly lowered the apron from her face.
“'The jumpin'-off place,' war what Clem Tweed called it!” she interpolated with a fiery eye of indignant reminiscence.
“He did! He did!” Medora bitterly resented this fling at the remoteness of their poor home. “An' he said whilst hyar he'd level on everything in sight, ez he hoped never ter travel sech roads agin—everything in sight, even the baby an' the cat!”
“Shucks, Medory, ye know the dep'ty man war funnin' whenst he said that about the baby an' the cat! Ye know ez Clem admitted he hed Christmas in his bones!” the elder objected.
“Waal, war Clem Tweed funnin' whenst he done sech ez that, in levyin' an execution?” Bruce Gilhooley pointed with his ramrod at the wreck of the furniture.
The two women burst into lugubrious sobs and rocked themselves back and forth in unison. “'Twar Dad!” Medora moaned, in smothered accents.
A pause of bewilderment ensued. Then the young man's face took on an expression of dismay so ominous that Medora's tears were checked in the ghastly fear of disasters yet to come to her father-in-law. Now and again she glanced anxiously over her shoulder at an oblong black aperture in the dusk which betokened the open door of the shed-room. Some one lurked there, evidently cherishing all aloof a grief, an anger, a despair too poignant to share.
“Dad warn't hyar whenst the dep'ty leveled,” she said. “An' mighty glad we war—kase somebody mought hev got hurt. But whenst Dad kem home an' larnt the news he jes'—he jes'—he jes' lept about like a painter.”
“He did! He did!” asseverated a voice from the veiled head, all muffled in the checked apron.