“Practice,” said I.
“They get plenty,” he said.
There was a pause.
“Oh, well,” he said. “I’ve never got that letter, anyhow.”
The wind blew fine and keen, in the sunshine, across the snow. I blew my nose and prepared to depart.
“And she doesn’t know anything?” he continued, jerking his head up the hill in the direction of Tible.
“She knows nothing but what I’ve said—that is, if she really burnt the letter.”
“I believe she burnt it,” he said, “for spite. She’s a little devil, she is. But I shall have it out with her.” His jaw was stubborn and sullen. Then suddenly he turned to me with a new note.
“Why?” he said. “Why didn’t you wring that b—— peacock’s neck—that b—— Joey?”
“Why?” I said. “What for?”