“No, sir,” responded Hamish emphatically; “there’s a deep pool in the creek at the bottom of this grade and if ther old wagin ever started a-runnin’ daown it—wall, by chowder, she’d take er bath whether she needed one er not.”
So saying, he proceeded to unhitch the horses and lead them toward the barn.
“Why don’t you drag the load in under the mow?” asked Tom, not quite seeing the object of leaving the load stalled in front of the house.
“Wall, yer see,” drawled Hamish, “thet mow’s got quite a sight of grass inter it naow. By chowder, ef I tried ter put this load in on top, it might raise the roof ofen it, so I’m gon’ ter shift it back a bit.”
At this juncture Mrs. Bijur appeared—a thin, sharp-featured woman in a blue calico dress, with a sunbonnet to match.
“Wall, land o’ goodness, ef it ain’t Mister Dacre,” she cried. “Wall, dear suz, what brings you here? Hamish, yer better ’tend to thet sick caow afore you put in yer hay. Do it right arter you’ve got them horses put up.”
“And leave ther hay out thar, mum?” asked Hamish.
“Yes, of course. Nobody ain’t goin’ ter steal it, be they? Go on with yer. Mr. Dacre, come in. Hev a glass of buttermilk. Dear suz! if I ain’t run off my mortal leags, an’—oh, you air a sniffin’, too, be yer?”
She broke off her torrent of talk as she noticed Mr. Dacre sniffing with a critical nose. The atmosphere was, in fact, impregnated with a very queer odor.
“Guess some senile egg must have gone off and died round here,” said Tom, with a snicker to Jack.