INSIDE THE LITTLE HOUSE
The two figures amid the rows of the marked garden paused, in the enveloping dusk, and leaned on their hoes, and listened—a low, peevish whistle, like the call of a night-jar, on the plain, came to them. Presently the call repeated itself—three wavering notes—and they shouldered their hoes and moved toward the little house.
The old man emerged from the gloom, coming toward them. “What was it?” asked one of the figures quickly.
The old man chuckled. “Stole a racer—that’s about all they knew—you got off easy!” He was peering toward them.
The larger of the two figures straightened itself. “I am sick of it—I tell you!—my back’s broke!” He moved himself in the dusk, stretching out his great arms and looking about him vaguely.
The old man eyed him shrewdly. “You’re earning a good pile,” he said.
“Yes, one-seventy-five a day!” The man laughed a little.
The other man had not spoken. He slipped forward through the dusk. “Supper ready?” he asked.
They followed him into the house, stopping in an entry to wash their hands and remove their heavy shoes. Through the door opening to a room beyond, a woman could be seen, moving briskly, and the smell of cooking floated out. They sniffed at it hungrily.
The woman came to the door. “Hurry up, boys—everything’s done to death!”