“Miss Gorgas,” Bardek motioned eloquently toward the orchard, “is jus’ out in the trees, watching young leaves come.”
Bardek struck an expectant attitude.
Morris drew the settle up to the fire and picked up a book.
“The spring fever have made you dumb, perhaps? I say she is jus’ out! Two, t’ree steps,” he looked out of the window, “at the big cherry she is now ... eh?”
“Thanks, Bardek,” Morris yawned and stretched his legs. “I’ll just smoke and read a little.... She’ll be back presently, I suppose.”
The Bohemian stared. Then he seized a huge hammer and smote mightily, like Tubalcain himself.
“Holy mackerel, Bardek!” Morris turned, laughing. “This is only a stone hut, you know.... What y’ making, a battleship?”
“You have not put many in t’e net lately, eh?” Bardek stopped to inquire irrelevantly. He was experimenting with the new phrases.
“Oh, my full share, I fancy. What makes you ask?”
Bardek was bitterly indignant, but the emotion was lost on Morris’ back.