Suddenly the raw hide which formed the door of Sam’s house was pushed aside, and a woman came out and called Sam, and he disappeared from his log.
As he entered his hut, all the women lifted sorrowful faces and retired; no one even lingered, for the Pike has not the common human interest in other people’s business; he lacks that, as well as certain similar virtues of civilization.
Sam dropped by the bedside, and was human; his heart was in the right place; and though heavily intrenched by years of laziness and whisky and tobacco, it could be brought to the front, and it came now.
The dying woman cast her eyes appealingly at the surgeon, and that worthy stepped outside the door. Then the yellow-faced woman said:
“Sam, doctor says I ain’t got much time left.”
“Mary,” said Sam, “I wish ter God I could die fur yer. The children——”
“It’s them I want to talk about, Sam,” replied his wife. “An’ I wish they could die with me, rather’n hev ’em liv ez I’ve hed to. Not that you ain’t been a kind husband to me, for you hev. Whenever I wanted meat yev got it, somehow; an’ when yev been ugly drunk, yev kep’ away from the house. But I’m dyin’, Sam, and it’s cos you’ve killed me.”
“Good God, Mary!” cried the astonished Sam, jumping up; “yure crazy—here, doctor!”
“Doctor can’t do no good, Sam; keep still, and listen, ef yer love me like yer once said yer did; for I hevn’t got much breath left,” gasped the woman.
“Mary,” said the aggrieved Sam, “I swow to God I dunno what yer drivin’ at.”