That night, when they were in bed, he remarked: “Say, Joe, boy; strikes me you’re well-off without Monkey-nuts. Gord love us, beans ain’t in it.”
So they slept in amity. But they waited with some anxiety for the morrow.
It was a cold morning, a grey sky shifting in a cold wind, and threatening rain. They watched the wagon come up the road and through the yard gates. Miss Stokes was with her team as usual; her “Whoa!” rang out like a war-whoop.
She faced up at the truck where the two men stood.
“Joe!” she called, to the averted figure which stood up in the wind.
“What?” he turned unwillingly.
She made a queer movement, lifting her head slightly in a sipping, half-inviting, half-commanding gesture. And Joe was crouching already to jump off the truck to obey her, when Albert put his hand on his shoulder.
“Half a minute, boy! Where are you off? Work’s work, and nuts is nuts. You stop here.”
Joe slowly straightened himself.
“Joe!” came the woman’s clear call from below.