“Ef by wilderness you mean standin’ spruce timber, then your recollection is right,” answered Mr. Talbot over his shoulder and through the folds of a woolen throat comforter. “But it’s mostly been lumbered off for pulp. They’re figgerin’ some on strippin’ the ridges of the hard woods next,” he added with a touch of local pride for local enterprise.
The car took the first steep rise into the range, buck-jumping and slewing like a skittish colt. Frequently it seemed to shy from bump to bump. The task of steering engaged Mr. Talbot. He addressed his vibrating passengers but rarely.
“Got a party booked to chore for you,” he told Mrs. Bugbee over his shoulder. “Name of Anna Rapley. Widder woman. Had quite a job of it gittin’ her to agree to do it. She told me to tell you her wages would be twenty-five a week fur ez long ez you stay.”
“Twenty-five a week?” echoed Mrs. Bugbee rather blankly.
“That’s whut she says. Says it’s her reg’lar price fur a special job like this one is. Says to tell you to take it or leave it, just ez you please. Says it don’t make a bit of difference to her either way. Independent, that’s her.”
“Oh, I’m sure we won’t quarrel over the wages!” Mrs. Bugbee hastened to explain. “Of course she’s competent?”
“Oh, spry enough so fur ez that goes, but strictly between you and me, watch her!” He twisted his head and punctuated the speech with a slow, significant wink.
“Watch her for what?”
“I ain’t sayin’. I ain’t even hintin’ at nothin’. All I’m tellin’ you in confidence is—watch her. She’s a good friend of my folks so mebbe I shouldn’t ’a’ said that much. Just keep your eyes open, that’s all.”