“Fifty cents,� whined Zeb, but a sullen look was coming into his light eyes.
“No!�
“Twenty-five cents!� pleaded the borrower, wheedling, but with angry eyes.
“Not a cent; you’d spend it on whiskey,� Caleb said.
Zeb’s face changed, the cringing attitude of a seeker of a favor fell from him, he snarled. “You’re a low-down, mean, sniveling shopkeeper!� he began. “I believe Jean’s tellin’ on yo’, sure enough, I—�
Caleb rose from his seat, his great figure towering over the drunkard, as he took him by the collar and thrust him out the door. “Go home,� he said, “and don’t you ever come here again!�
Zeb fell out of his hand and shambled up against the silver birch, sputtering. He hated Trench, but he was afraid to give voice to his wrath. Besides, Shot was between them now, every hair erect on the ridge of his spine. Zeb shook his fist and trembled.
“Go home,� said Trench again, and then to the dog, “Come, Shot!� and he turned back contemptuously.
As he did so, a tall farmer in brown homespun, with a wide-brimmed straw hat, drove up in his light wagon and got down to speak to him. The newcomer’s eyes fell on Zeb. “Drunk again,� he remarked.
Trench nodded, and the two went into the office.