Her voice sounded bitingly hard, cold, and bitter. He looked at her reproachfully, like a dog that has been kicked.
"What ever's got into you, Judy, to talk so hateful?"
She shrugged her shoulders and went on frying the inevitable corn cakes.
She grew more and more shiftless and slatternly about the house. More and more mechanically she dragged through the days. As she hung over the washtub or plunged the dasher up and down in the ancient oaken churn or stood by the stove frying three times a day the endlessly recurring corn cakes, her body moved with the dead automatic rhythm of old habit. Her face was habitually sullen and heavy, her eyes glazed and turned inward or looking out upon vacancy with an abstracted stare.
In October the baby was born.
It was a girl this time, a skinny little mite weighing not much more than five pounds. Judith had very little milk for it, and their one cow was nearly dry; so Jerry began to look around to see where he could get another cow cheap and on time.
One Sunday morning when they had overslept they were wakened by a light tap at the window and Uncle Sam Whitmarsh's genial voice penetrated their drowsiness.
"Waal, naow, if you two hadn't otter think shame to yerse'ves sluggin' abed with the sun a-shinin' an' the crows a-cawin' outside. Why, it's most seven o'clock, an' the whole countryside been up an' about this two hours. It's queer, too, what things'll happen to some while others sleeps." Uncle Sam's voice took on a serious if not tragic tone. "While you two was a-sleepin' here like babes, she's bin a-turnin' me out o' my home. Yaas, sir, already here afore breakfast she's up an' slammed the door in my face. Whatcha think o' sech carryin's on? Turnin' a old man past seventy, the father o' nine chillun, out o' the home that he's worked an' slaved to keep a-goin' this past thirty year an' more! I ast you, Jerry, if I hain't put more work onto that place'n what the place is woth a dozen times over? An' all 'cause she's got the deed to it in her name she shets the door in my face. I hain't a-goin' to stand fer sech goin's on no longer. I hain't no dirty dawg to be kicked outdoors when he gits underfoot an' whistled back when they want the caows brung home. Yaas, sir, Samuel Ziemer Whitmarsh is a old man; but he hain't a-needin' no repairs put on him yet; an' I reckon there hain't many young fellers kin learn him much about tradin' an' fetchin' in the money when it's needed. Nex' time she looks to me fer money, she's a-goin' to find it's buyin' some other woman a bonnet. An', speakin' o' tradin', Jerry, I hearn you was a-needin' a fresh caow fer Judy an' the baby, an' it jes comes lucky I kin lay my hands on the very caow to suit yuh. She's a nice black fam'ly caow, eight year old no more, a easy milker an' fills the bucket. She's got a purty red calf by her side, an' the calf goes along with her. She's yourn, calf an' all, fer sixty dollars. I don't ast fer no cash, jes a little note comin' due in three months' time an' you kin pay me when you sell yer terbaccer. Whatcha say?"
"I'll be over to have a look at her, Uncle Sam," said Jerry, stretching his arms above his head. "Got her at Uncle Amos's place?"