The others had gathered nearer to hear what was being said, looking up at the driver’s seat to where the wreck of a man sat smoking his corn-cob pipe, secure in the defense established by his small virago.
“I tell you right now,” Thurley’s mother supplemented, “that, when I had my health and was on the stage, I could have bought and sold the whole town. My father was a real Kentucky colonel, and I was brought up to never lift a finger—”
At which Thurley’s father took his pipe from his mouth long enough to say, “Shut up, Jen; let the kid give it to ’em—she knows how.”
Thurley took up the burden of defense. “We want the pro-pry-e-tor. We want to camp here to-night, and get some vittles and we’ll give him the loveliest new tins—as bright as silver. Where is the pro-pry-e-tor?”
Prince Hawkins and his wife, taking pity on the child, came to her rescue.
“Oh, pshaw, I don’t believe we want none of them tins!” Mrs. Hawkins said. “We got more now than we ever use.”
Tears gathered in Thurley’s eyes. She turned her head so they would remain a secret.
“Maybe you’d like your fortunes told?” suggested Mrs. Precore from the window ledge. “Honest, I certainly have told some remarkable things—why, a Chicago finan-seer wanted me to settle in Chicago so he could get my advice as to the stock exchange—” Here she gave way to coughing and vanished completely.
“My ma and pa is too sick to work,” Thurley added, determined to gain her point. “I got to get a doctor for them to-morrow. We was headin’ for a city, but we sort of run out of supplies—” She bit her underlip.
“Maybe you’d like a stewpan?” she coaxed of Betsey Pilrig.