“Is it so bad as that?”
“Ah, it is!” was Dan’s short but emphatic reply.
“But surely, my son, thy wife would never use a man ill that meant her good?”
“Think she’ll stop to ask your meanin’?” said Dan, with a contemptuous grunt. “If she’s not changed sin’ I come fro’ dinner, she’ll be a-top of you before you can say ‘mercy.’ And she’s none a comfortable thing to have a-top of you, I give you fair warning.”
“How was she at supper, then?—no better?”
“Supper! I durstn’t go in for no supper. I likes hunger better nor a fray. Happen El’nor ’ll steal out to me with a crust after dark. She does, sometimes.”
“And how long does it take thy wife to cool down?”
Dan rubbed his forehead with his blackened hand.
“I was wed to her,” said he, “th’ year afore the great frost, if you know when that were—and I’d better have been fruz, a deal. I’ve had it mortal hot ever since. She’s had that time to cool down in, and she’s no cooler nor she were then. Rather, if either, t’other way on, I reckon.”
Before Father Thomas could reply, the shrillest scream that had ever met his ears came out of the window of the smithy.