Bradley helped Ida to lay off her cloak. It was incredible what pleasure it gave him to do these little things for her. He left her a few minutes to go out and look up the matter of the team. When he returned he found Ida leaning back wearily in a big chair, her face very grave and pale. He told her that a team would be ready soon.
"You can come right out to supper," announced the landlady; and they went out into the kitchen, where the table sat. It was lighted with a kerosene lamp that threw dull-blue shadows among the dishes, and dazzled the eyes of the eaters with its horizontal rays of light. The table had a large quantity of boiled beef and potatoes and butter, which each person was evidently expected to hew off for himself. The dessert was pumpkin-pie, which they both greeted with smiles.
"Ah, that looks like the pie mother used to make," Ida said, as the landlady put it down.
"Waal, I'd know. Seems to me the crust is a leetle too short. I've ben havin' pretty good luck lately; but this pumpkin weren't just the very best. It was one of them thin-rinded ones, you know. Pumpkins weren't extry good; weren't thunder enough, I reckon, this summer."
After supper Bradley went out, leaving Ida with the landlady, who was delighted with her listener.
"Here's our team," called Bradley, coming to Ida's relief a few minutes later. "It ain't a very gay rig; but it's the best I could do," he explained, as he helped her in and tucked the quilts about her. "I had to skirmish in two or three houses to get these quilts, for the wind is sharp; you'll need them."
"Thank you; I'm afraid you've given me more than my share."
There was only one seat, and Bradley took his place beside Ida, while the driver crouched on the bottom of the clattering old democrat wagon. Ida was concerned for him.
"Haven't you another seat?" she inquired.
"No m'm. I don't need any," he replied, in a slow drawl. "I tried to borrow one from Sam Smalley, but they're all usin' theirs. I'd jest as soon set here."