"Well, you ought to be."
"Don't see it."
"Well, now, let me show it. We can't go on this way. I'm gittin' so poor you can count my ribs through my shirt. Jest think how comfortable it would make things! No more awful coffee; no more canned baked beans; no more cussed, infernal, everlastin', leathery flapjacks; no more soggy bread—confound it!" Here he seized the round inner part of the loaf, from which the crust had been flaked, and flung it through the open door far down toward the garden.
"Bert! that's the last bit of bread we've got in the house."
"What's the odds? We couldn't eat it."
"We could 'a' baked it over."
"We could eat dog, but we don't," replied Bert gloomily. His temper was getting frightful of late.
"We'll be all right when Flaxen comes back," said Ans, laughing.
"Say, now, you've said that a thousand times this winter. You know well enough Flaxen's out o' this. We ain't countin' on her," blurted Gearheart, just in the mood to say disagreeable things.
"Wha' d' y' mean? Ain't she comin' back in June?"