“Hello, Denny! H’lo, Barney. Set down—don’t cost nothin’. Missus ’ll have grub ready in a minute. When did you get here? Didn’t hear you come in.”
“Oh, we been here quite a spell—waitin’ fur Pete.”
“Where’s Pete—Injun Pete, you mean?”
“Uhuh. He sneaked in, a ways back, lookin’ fur a deer. Said he seen one—”
“Thought you seed it fust—when you looked back that time.” Axel turned and looked at Harrigan.
“No,” said Harrigan decisively. “He seen it first.” Mrs. Cameron felt that her visitors were slighting her, even if the Company was paying for their meals. She had introduced the topic of Swickey Avery. Was she going to cook dinner for three hungry men and get nothing in immediate return for it except dishes to wash? Not she.
“That little snip, Swickey Avery,” she began; but Cameron shuffled his feet and glanced appealingly at his Amazonian spouse to no avail;—“that little snip,” she continued, opening the oven door and closing it with a bang that made Harrigan start, “came traipsin’ down here in a new dress—a new dress, mind you! and told my Jim she had ’nother ‘loungeree’ to home. Said Davy Ross had jest ketched it. And my Jim was fool enough to pertend he wanted to see Hoss Avery, and he sets to and walks—walks over to Lost Farm,—and what do you think she showed him?”
Harrigan realized that the question was launched particularly at him. “Showed who?” he queried. He had been thinking of something far different.
“Why, Jim!” she replied irately, red arms folded and thin lips compressed in bucolic scorn.
“Search me,” said Harrigan absently.