“Come on!” he said. “We are going to the house.”
She stared at him.
“I simply don't dare.”
“Then I will go alone,” said the Harvester, picking up the bucket and starting.
The Girl followed him.
“Uncle Henry may come any minute,” she urged.
“Well if he comes and acts unpleasantly, he will get what he richly deserves.”
“And he will make me pay for it afterward.”
“Oh no he won't!” said the Harvester, “because I'll look out for that. This is my lucky day. He isn't going to come.”
When he reached the back door he opened it and stepped inside. Of all the barren places of crude, disheartening ugliness the Harvester ever had seen, that was the worst.