If Sol had looked for tears, his eyes were cheated; if he had listened for screams, wailings, and moanings, his ears were disappointed. Sarah Newbolt stood straight and haughtily scornful in her kitchen door, her dark eyes bright between their snapping lids.
“Where’s Joe?” she asked sternly.
“He’s over there,” said Sol, feeling that he had made a noise like a peanut-bag which one inflates and smashes in the palm in the expectation of startling the world.
“Well, you see, Bill Frost’s kind of keepin’ his eye on him till the inquest,” explained Sol.
“Yes, and I could name the man that put him up to it,” said she.
“Well, circumstantial evidence–” began Sol.
“Oh, circumstance your granny!” she stopped him pettishly.
Mrs. Newbolt emptied her pan among the scrambling fowls by turning it suddenly upside down. That done, she reached behind her and put it on the table. Her face had grown hard and severe, and her eyes were fierce.
“Wouldn’t believe my boy!” said she bitterly. “Are you going over that way now?”