Elizabeth stooped to gather Jack into her arms and made no reply.
“It’s as hot as th’ devil in here,” Nathan said, taking his coat off. “Here let me have a turn at that churn. You ought t’ be in bed. That’s where Sue’d put you if she was here.”
He took the dasher into his own hand and began a brave onslaught on the over-sour cream. The butter gave signs of coming, but would not gather. He churned, and the sweat of his brow had to be wiped frequently to keep it from where he would literally have it to eat; it ran down inside his prickly blue flannel shirt, it stood out on his hair, hands and arms like dew on the morning grass, and the old man looked out to the wheezing corn-sheller and envied the men working in the cool breeze where life and courage could be sustained while one laboured.
“I wouldn’t be a woman for fifty dollars a day,” he announced with grim conviction. “It’d make a devil out of anybody t’ work in this hell-hole. No wonder you’re s’ peeked, child.”
John came back to the house almost immediately after leaving it to go to work in the afternoon.
“You’ll have to bake more pies, Elizabeth. The men have been put back by a breakdown. They won’t be able to get through before five or half-past,” he said, coming into the kitchen to investigate the larder.
“They can’t?” Elizabeth exclaimed, longing for the rest she had planned to get after the dinner work was finished.
“No. It’s too bad, but it can’t be helped. Now you get the oven going and I’ll come in and help you about beating the eggs. You’ll have to make custard pie, I guess, for there ain’t enough fruit to make any more. Hurry, and I’ll be in in a few minutes.”
“I’m not going to make any more pies to-day,” Elizabeth replied.