the eaves of his cabin, and shivering slightly, he crawled into his bunk.
All the forenoon the two men worked side by side with pick and shovel and wheelbarrow, piling the earth high above the baseboards of Reeves' white painted house. Brent spoke little and he worked as, it seemed to him, he had never worked before. The muscles of his back and arms and fingers ached, and in his vitals was the gnawing desire for drink. But he had brought no liquor with him, and he fought down the desire and worked doggedly, filling the wheelbarrows as fast as Reeves could dump them. At noon Reeves surveyed the work with satisfaction: "We've got it!" he exclaimed, "We're a little more than half through, and none too soon." The wind had blown steadily from the north, carrying with it frequent flurries of snow. "We'll knock off now. Just step into the house."
Brent shook his head, "No, I'll slip over to the cabin. I'll be back by the time you're through dinner."
Reeves, who had divined the man's need, stepped closer, "Come in, won't you. I've got a little liquor that I brought from the outside. I think you'll like it."
Without a word Brent followed him into the kitchen where Reeves set out the bottle and a tumbler: "Just help yourself," he said, "I never use it," and passed into the next room. Eagerly Brent poured himself half a tumblerful and gulped
it down, and as he returned the glass to the table, he heard the voice of Reeves: "You don't mind if he eats with us do you? He's worked mighty hard, and—" the sentence was interrupted by a woman's voice:
"Why, certainly he will eat with us. See, the table's all set. I saw you coming so I brought the soup in. Hurry before it gets cold." At the man's words Brent's eyes had flashed a swift glance over his disreputable garments. His lips had tightened at the corners, and as he had waited for the expected protest, they had twisted into a cynical smile. But at the woman's reply, the smile died from his lips, and he took a furtive step toward the door, hesitated, and unconsciously his shoulders stiffened, and a spark flickered for a moment in his muddy eyes. Why not? It had been many a long day since he had sat at a table with a woman—that kind of a woman. Like a flash came Reeves' words of the night before. "She's from the South." If the man should really ask him to sit at his table, why not accept—and carry it through in his own way? The good liquor was taking hold. Brent swiftly dashed some more into the glass and downed it at a swallow. Then Reeves stepped into the room.
"You are to dine here," he announced, "we both of us need a good hot meal, and a good smoke, and my wife has your place all laid at the table."
"I thank you," answered Brent, "May I wash?" Reeves, who had expected an awkward protest
started at the words, and indicated the basin at the sink. As Brent subjected his hands and face to a thorough scrubbing, and carefully removed the earth from beneath his finger nails, Reeves eyed him quizzically. Brent preceded his host into the dining room where Mrs. Reeves waited, standing beside her chair.