"Where do you think you're going, and when do you think you're comin' back—and me all alone in the house?"
Now his eyes gleamed way down in their brown depths with a spark apiece of malice.
"I don't know where I'm going," he said, "but I know that I'm not coming back until a little bird tells me that you have hired some one to help you with the housework."
She was furious.
"Faith, then," she said, "you'll not come back till Doom's Day."
He concluded his preparations in silence, and carried his skis outdoors to put them on.
"I say, Martha," he called, "hand me my pack and things, will you?"
"I will not."
He laughed, and managed, with more laughter and some peril, to come up the steps and into the kitchen on his skis.
He adjusted the pack to his shoulder, put on his mittens, and took up his rifle and his axe. Malice still gleamed in his eyes.