CHAPTER XVI
Billy arose the morning after his eventful evening, with a feeling of physical discomfort. He attributed it to his neglected duty, when in reality it was merely a disordered stomach.
The past day or two, ending in a feast of unwonted dainties, had created havoc with Billy's newly acquired, higher nature.
He was sulkily belligerent with Maggie, but Maggie viewed the lapse with considerable relief. Billy of the night before awed her in spite of herself. Billy of the morning after cast no reflections on her own inferiority.
Poor Peggy wondered, in her dull way, if she had been dreaming the astonishing things that had set her heart beating. To reassure herself she took a candle and went out to the wood-shed. No; there, in the dim shadows of the cobwebby place, was the stanza that was proof of her son's genius. Then Peggy reflected with a glad heart that it was the accepted belief of the world that geniuses were always cranky and uncomfortable, and, womanlike, Peggy gave thanks that it was permitted her to have a genius for her own.
Soon after breakfast Billy began his life work with a dull pain in the region of his heart.
He went up to Filmer's shack and found him out; he then hauled and pulled the tagged bundles of pine trees, which Jock had left standing by the door, down to the Station.
"What in the name"—Tom Smith paused to expectorate—"of all," (it is needless to enumerate the name of the gods by which Tom swore) "yer doing with them sapling pines?"