“Will you be coming out of there?” groaned Freckles.
She laughed as if it were a fine joke.
“Maybe if I'd be telling you I killed a rattler curled upon that same place you're standing, as long as me body and the thickness of me arm, you'd be moving where I can see your footing,” he urged insistently.
“What a perfectly delightful little brogue you speak,” she said. “My father is Irish, and half should be enough to entitle me to that much. 'Maybe—if I'd—be telling you,'” she imitated, rounding and accenting each word carefully.
Freckles was beginning to feel a wildness in his head. He had derided Wessner at that same hour yesterday. Now his own eyes were filling with tears.
“If you were understanding the danger!” he continued desperately.
“Oh, I don't think there is much!”
She tilted on the morass.
“If you killed one snake here, it's probably all there is near; and anyway, the Bird Woman says a rattlesnake is a gentleman and always gives warning before he strikes. I don't hear any rattling. Do you?”
“Would you be knowing it if you did?” asked Freckles, almost impatiently.