Morrison, who had been sweeping off his narrow porch, in his shirt-sleeves, came out into the road at the rapid approach of the buckboard.
"Hello thar!" he shouted, and Holcomb stopped at an insistent gesture from the proprietor.
"Hain't seen nothin' of a barril of kerosene fer me down thar, hev ye?" he asked. "Gosh durn it!—it oughter been here more'n a week ago."
"Nothing there for you. Jimmy's coming along with the trunks," replied
Holcomb. "He won't start before the freight gets in."
"Evenin', Mr. Thayor," said Morrison. "Wall, ye've got 'em all here now, haven't ye?" he remarked, running his shrewd eyes over the filled seats.
"Mrs. Thayor and my daughter, Mr. Morrison," said Thayor.
"Pleased to meet you, marm." Morrison raised his hat and stretched out a coarse red hand. Alice extended three fingers of her own despite her repulsion. There was really no other way out of it. "And here's the little gal, I 'spose," continued the proprietor. Margaret laughed as she shook hands. "Won't ye stop and take something, friend?" he asked Blakeman. Blakeman raised his eyebrows in protest.
"Mon Dieu!" whispered Annette.
"Relations of yourn, Mrs. Thayor?" asked Morrison, noticing Annette's embarrassment.
Alice straightened. "My maid!" she said stiffly.