“Women! women!” muttered Peter, and threw on another log.
“What you suppose has happened to keep our young feller from the––the oysters, eh?”
“I’m not accounting for folks or things these days, Peter. 106 I’m just keeping my eyes and ears open. Jan-an makes me uneasy!” This came like a mild explosion.
“What’s she up to?” Peter sniffed.
“Land! the poor soul is like the barometer you set such store by. Everything looking clear and peaceful and then suddenlike up she gets, as she did an hour ago, and grabs her truck and sets out for Mary-Clare’s like she was summoned. Just saying she had to! These are queer times, brother. I ain’t easy in my mind.”
“If Jan-an doesn’t calm down,” Peter muttered, “she may have to be put somewhere, as Larry Rivers once suggested. Larry hasn’t many earmarks of his pa––but he may have a sense about human ailments.”
“Think shame of yourself, Peter Heathcote, to let anything Larry Rivers says disturb your natural good feelings. Where could we send Jan-an if we wanted to?” Peter declined to reply and Aunt Polly went on: “Larry isn’t living with Mary-Clare, Peter!” she added. This was a more significant explosion. Peter turned and his hair seemed to spring an inch higher around his red, puffy face.
“Where is he living?” he asked. When deeply stirred, Peter went slow and warily.
“He’s hired Peneluna’s old shack.”
Peter digested this; but found it chaff.