“So you ain’t forgot you belongs to your Pa, yit? Wal, I guess eddication ain’t spoilin’ you a’ter all. It do spile some folks what gits it too sudden-like; them as ain’t growed up ’long with it nacheral.”
Swickey gazed at the red chink of the damper. Suddenly she sprang up. “Why, Pop! I was forgetting about supper.”
“Why, Swickey,—I forgot—’bout supper likewise,” said her father, mimicking her. “I’ll fetch in some meat. Got a nice ven’son tenderline in the shed, and you kin make some biscuits and fry them p’tatus; and I got some honey from Jim last fall,—he ought to be in purty quick now,—and they’s some gingerbread and cookies in the crock. I reckon with some bilin’ hot tea and the rest of it, our stummicks kin limp along somehow till mornin’.”
“Whew! she’s colder than a weasel’s foot down a hole,” exclaimed Curious Jim, a trifle ambiguously, as he came in with a gust of wind that shook the lamp-flame.
Beelzebub, solemn-eyed and portly, lay before the kitchen stove, purring his content. Smoke followed Swickey, getting in her way most of the time, but seemingly tireless in his attentions. Avery smoked and talked to Cameron in subdued tones as he watched his daughter arrange the table-things with a natural grace that reminded him poignantly of the other Nanette. “Jest like her—jest like her,” he muttered.
“Yes, he does like her, don’t he?” remarked Cameron, referring to Smoke’s ceaseless padding from stove to table and back again.
“Wal, I reckon!” said Avery. “Had two chances fur a car-ride to Boston, but he come back here a-flyin’ both times. You can’t fool a dog ’bout whar he’d ruther be, same as you kin some folks.”
“No, you can’t,” replied Cameron sagely, “’speshully on a winter night like this one.”
Swickey left the men to their pipes when she had washed the supper dishes, and went to the front room, where she opened the box from “Boston,” emitting a delighted little cry as she drew out the short rifle from its leather case. A card attached to it was closely written over with a friendly little expression of Christmas cheer from David. She tucked the card in her dress and ran to the kitchen with the rifle.
“Wal, a shootin’-iron!” exclaimed Avery, turning toward her. “Thet’s what I call purty nifty. From Dave? Wal, thet are nice!”