“Poor Sammy!� said Caleb.
The doctor clucked, and old Henk moved off, splashing through muddy water up to his fetlocks. The road was dark, and the doctor had swung a lantern between the back-wheels, a custom dear to rural communities; it swung there, casting a dismal flare under the buggy, which looked like a huge lightning-bug, with fire at its tail.
“Good enough for him!� continued the doctor bluntly, referring to Sammy and the foundling asylum.
“Plenty,� assented Caleb, unmoved.
This angered the doctor, as Caleb knew it would.
“Little brat!� growled William Cheyney fiercely, “what was he born for? Foundling asylum, of course!�
“Of course,� agreed Caleb, and smiled in the darkness.
“Damn!� said the doctor.
They traveled on through the night; the wind swept the boughs down, and the rain drove in their faces even under the hood.
“I can’t take him, drat it!� the old man broke out again fiercely. “I’ve boarded for sixty years; women are varmints, good women, I mean, and the Colfaxes wouldn’t take Sammy for a day to save his soul; he’s a child of shame.�