"I call that-er-tale a mighty good one," Martin remarked when, hands upon knees, eyes staring, and chin hanging, he heard the grand finale. "Taint allas as the ungodly gets fetched up with so cutely. It's right comfortin' to think o' that low-down trash a-festerin' in the bottom o' the gulch."
Then Martin, the gentlest of creatures, went pattering up to bed in his stocking feet, muttering cheerfully to himself as he mounted the dark stairs, candle in outstretched hand:
"A festerin' eternally at the bottom!"
After his father departed Sandy sat by his fire alone and waited. So Lans found him, and gloomily took a chair across the hearth.
"Have you had supper, Lans?" Sandy asked after greeting him cordially.
"Yes. The storm kept me last night. I got back—not long ago. I had a bite while I waited for the horse to be seen to. The poor beast was pretty well worn out."
There did not seem to be anything more to say on that subject, so Sandy remarked:
"Smoke if you care to, Lans; don't mind me."
But Lans did not care to smoke and suddenly he jumped up, plunged his hands in his pockets and faced Sandy with crimson cheeks and wide eyes.
"Sand," he blurted out, "I'm in a devil of a hole; I've pulled about all Lost Hollow in with me. I'm a fool and worse, but you know how I am. Any big passion that seizes me—holds me! I'm not responsible while the clutch is on me. I ought to be taken out and shot. I——"