She entered the shack behind Pat Kilrea and closed the door. In doing this she meant no offense to the others, who didn’t mind, knowing that with a cold of some twenty below people don’t care for an excess of ventilation. They stood, the men silently, the women putting their heads together and whispering.
“Ain’t she the brazen sassy thing?” remarked Mrs. Kilrea.
“Guess she ain’t no better’n she should be,” opined Sophy, acidly, as she watched the door keenly.
Pat Kilrea went to the bunk and for an instant considered the sick man’s face. Then he scratched his head again.
“Hello, Hugo!” he finally called out. “What’s the matter with ye? Ain’t––ain’t tryin’ to hide behind a gal’s skirts, are ye?”
His arm was seized from behind. The girl’s eyes flashed at him.
“I––I don’t know who you are!” she exclaimed. “But if––if you say such things I’ll turn that dog on you, so help me God!”
“I––I don’t reckon as I meant it,” stammered Pat. “He––he does look turriple sick, now me eyes is gettin’ used to the light. Why, why don’t you speak, man?”
But the sufferer on the bunk made no answer save in some low fast words that were disconnected and meaningless. Slowly, nearly tenderly, Pat touched a hand that felt burning hot and a forehead that was moist and clammy. Then he turned to the girl again.