“Old-Hab’s hoss,” reported Ella.
“Ho there, Danamite!” sounded a smothered growl. The bells cut their music short; and a moment later Old-Hab himself battered the door, and, entering, unwound a woolen muffler white-furred with frozen breath. His bony cheeks, at last uncovered, shone glazed and flaming.
“By the hokey,” he grumbled, breathing sharp and stamping his yellow “larrigans” on the oilcloth. “Smells good in here, Miss Dawson. Black as night, too. Takes this piercifyin’ cold to aidge a man’s stummick and file his teeth. Dretful holler, this weather!”
“Eatin’! What did I say?” With the ready grievance of a comedian, Ella turned to Miles. “Eatin’, I says, is the first word Hab Belden speaks inside this house! There ye go.”
The teamster, unmoved, began to shed jacket after jacket,—a grimy sheep-fleece, a worn reefer, a faded blanket coat belted with tarred rope. After each struggle he diminished in bulk, as though peeling layer by layer to the core; till at last, dashing his cap on the discarded pile, he emerged like Burleigh from the Lord Treasurer, and stood forth as a little, wiry, beardless man in a brown jersey. His narrow body, sharp, frost-red features, and Indian hair brushed fiercely back in coarse lines, gave him an eager, windswept air, as of a weather-cock facing the winter blast. In a gusty way he veered upon Ella.
“You can talk like Day o’ Pentecost,” he said, admiring. “But don’t tell us ye can’t beat the old house afire at cookin’! I says to ’em all, up Sweet Water way, they can’t use the same oven with Ella Dawson.”
“Shoo-fly,” retorted the cook contemptuously. None the less, she rummaged for dishes, and slowly arranged them on the table. The flatterer was soon plying an expert knife.
“Well, Mr. Mile,” he continued, “I’ve come o’ business to your gran’father. Consarns you, but no hurry. Cares can wait: Old Appetite, not so.—Now, why don’t a handy girl like that ever git merried?”
“Much!” cried Ella angrily. She turned her back, and stared out at window, muttering, “Waste time ketchin’ some glutteron to cook for?” No one but a Bissant might have known what memory her scorn disguised, or in what gale Ben Constantine went overboard, thirty years ago.