"She air well," answered Ben, thrown off his guard. He took out his pipe, and continued:
"When ye comes to the shanty, ye can't bring that brat."
"Nope; I ain't a-goin' to bring him," Tess replied, whispering a prayer for aid.
"What be ye goin' to do with it?"
"I don't know yet." A muttered petition fell over the baby's face, but she said aloud: "I think it air a-goin' to croak."
"I's a-thinkin' so, too," Ben said thoughtfully. "He hes the look of death on his mug, Tessibel.... Air it yer brat?"
"He air mine now," she answered slowly, raising her head, "and I stays here with him till he dies."
"Nope; ye be a-comin' to my shanty to-morry. Mammy air expectin' ye.... And ye'll be glad to come—afore I gets done with ye!"
Tess shivered. She remembered Myra's broken wrist, and heard again the woful cry from the other squatter girl as she told of the harm done her. If she could get out of the shanty, she could run from him, but that would leave the child to his mercy. She glanced toward the door. Whatever came to her, she must protect the babe. Lifting him from his bed, she sat down at the oven, and extended the blue legs toward the heat.
"He air so damn thin," she said in excuse, "that he allers yaps if he air cold.... Have ye seen Myry's kid lately?"