The little Wiggetts meanwhile thronged the doorway, staring at Jack and his strange machine, and their old acquaintance, the dog.
"Cl'ar the kitchen, you young uns!" the mother stormed after them, cuffing right and left. "Noon-mark'll cut ye plumb in tew, 'f ye don't scatter! It's comin' into this yer door, like it was a bullet from pap's rifle!"
The grimy faces and bare legs "scattered"; while Mrs. Wiggett called to Jack,—
"How long 'fore ye gwine to shute that ar thing off? 'Low I oughter scoop up a little fust."
"Scoop up?" Jack repeated, not quite taking her meaning.
"Right smart o' dirt on the floor yer; it'll be in your way, I reckon."
"Not at all," said Jack. "My line will cut through; and you can scoop down to it, at your leisure. I must get you to remove these iron wedges, Mr. Wiggett; the needle won't work with so much iron near."
The wedges removed, the needle settled; and Jack, adjusting the sights of his compass to a north-and-south line, got Mr. Wiggett to mark its bearings for him, with a chalk pencil, on the floor of the open doorway.
"All creation!" shrieked the woman, suddenly making a pounce at the kneeling old man; "we don't want a noon-mark thar, cl'ar away from the jamb, ye fool! We want it whur the shadder o' the jamb 'll hit it plumb at noon."
The old man looked up from his position on "all-fours," and parried her attack with his lifted hand.