“My mother left money—for me, you say?” he wondered.
“No, Phil, I haven’t said so. I asked you if Abner had ever said anything of the sort?”
“No. Do you think she did?”
“I’m not saying what I think. I wish I was a man; I’d read old Abner Adams a lecture that he wouldn’t forget as long as he lives.”
Phil smiled indulgently.
“He’s an old man, Mrs. Cahill. He’s all crippled up with rheumatism, and maybe he’s got a right to be cranky—”
“And to turn his own sister’s child outdoors, eh? Not by a long shot. Rheumatics don’t give anybody any call to do any such a thing as that. He ought to have his nose twisted, and it’s me, a good church member, as says so.”
The lad picked up his axe and resumed his occupation, while Mrs. Cahill turned up a chunk of wood and sat down on it, keeping up a running fire of comment, mostly directed at Abner Adams, and which must have made his ears burn.
Shortly after eight o’clock Phil gathered his books, strapped them and announced that he would be off for school.
“I’ll finish the woodpile after school,” he called back, as he was leaving the gate.