“Yes, I hear ’em, too, Smoke. Guess it’s Swickey and Jim. Reckoned she’d come purty quick now, seein’ as Joe Smeaton’s been to Tramworth three times to tell her.”
As the wagon drew nearer, Avery peered beneath his hand. “If thet’s Jim Cameron, he’s changed some sence he was here last. It’s Swickey sure ’nough, but who that feller is a-drivin’—why, it’s Jim’s hosses, but, bless my buttins, if it ain’t Joe Smeaton drivin’ ’em. Hello, Joe! What become of Jim?”
Smeaton pulled up the team and Swickey jumped down, and fondled Smoke. Then she turned to greet her father.
“Sick,” said Smeaton. “Took sick last Sat’day with ammonia—so Miss Cameron says. I knowed Swickey was sot on photygrafin’ the drive, so I borried the team offen Jim and brung her.”
“It was very kind of you, Joe,” said Swickey, blushing.
“Thet’s all right, Swickey. I ain’t forgettin’ what your Pa done fur me,—and I ain’t a-goin’ to. Guess I’ll drive back to the Knoll, fur Jim’s pow’ful oneasy ’bout this here team.”
“Better stay and have dinner, Joe,” said Avery, as Swickey, rollicking with Smoke, went into the cabin.
“Guess I’ll jog along, Hoss. Say,” he continued, “you got the finest, bulliest gal what ever growed up in these here woods, Hoss Avery.” And then, as though ashamed of his enthusiasm, he turned and climbed to the wagon-seat, swung the horses with a jerk that threatened an upset, and careened down the hill at a pace that surprised Avery by its recklessness.
“Wal, Swickey, so you’re here—and lookin’ like a bunch of hollyhocks. How’s Miss Wilkins?”
“Just as nice as ever. My, Pop! but it’s warm in here with the stove going.”