The signs of McFardell’s weakening must have been apparent to any close observer as he stood in the doorway of his shanty gazing out upon the litter of his clearing. His eyes were unsmiling, and discontent looked out of them. He had no right to be standing there. He knew that. But his head ached, and he was hating the thought of work more than he had ever believed himself capable of hating it. His horses were in the barn, where he had put them somewhere about midnight. They were unbrushed, and unfed or watered. His two cows were at the corral bars bellowing for the milker and the feed they knew themselves entitled to. Then there was that seeding that should have been completed to-day. And now, in an hour or so, it would be noon. He felt tough. But——
He dived his hands into the pockets of his trousers. Then he searched his hip pocket. The result was a few silver coins and two bills of small denomination. He gazed at them awhile, and a feeling of sickness, which had nothing to do with the whisky he had consumed overnight, pervaded his stomach. He was thinking hard, and remembered he had “shot craps” to a late hour. Two dollars and a half was the change out of the fifty good dollars with which he had visited Hartspool the day before.
He thrust the dollars back into his pocket. Then he moved out into the sunlight.
“Gee! I must have been soused,” he muttered.
His heavy gaze surveyed the scene while the cows continued their clamour. It was a poor enough place, typical of its kind. The whole thing was haphazard. It was slipshod. Maybe the buildings were stout enough. It was the best that could be said of them. There was inexperience, carelessness, even indifference, in every detail of them. The thatch upon the barn was loose and wind-blown; the corral, snugged against the sheltering woods at the far side of the clearing, looked to have been constructed with regard to haste rather than stability; the near-by hay-stack of last year’s hay was a hopeless, wasteful litter. So, too, was the extravagant assortment of expensive implements, already rusted and paint-worn, which it would take him years to pay for.
He disregarded it all. At the moment his only concern was for the bad day he had had in Hartspool, and his complete disinclination for the arrears of work he knew to be awaiting him.
He passed down to the corral and cursed the clamouring cows. And later he returned with a bucket of none-too-clean milk, which, regardless of the swarming flies that descended upon it, he deposited just within the doorway of his shanty. Then, his mood improving with activity, he went on to the barn to tend his neglected team.
As he passed into the miserable building the whinny of gladness that greeted him was lost upon McFardell. All the years of his association with horseflesh had failed to inspire a shadow of appreciation. Horses had their uses, and, for him, that was all sufficient. And just now his only thought was to be done with irksome labours. The brush and curry-comb were things he had learned to hate in the days of his police life.
By the time he had rushed through the bare necessities of his team his mind was made up. There would be no seeding that day. It could wait until the morrow. He condemned himself for oversleeping. He knew that he had been half-drunk overnight. He had lost money at “craps” he could not afford. But he would straighten up. Yes. That was it. He would cut out Hartspool for awhile—at least till that big farmers’ dance which would take place in about two weeks. Hartspool was no use to him. He would stick to his work now the spring had come. So, for the rest of the day he would overhaul his machinery, and get it into good shape. He——
He looked up in the act of dipping corn from his iron bin, and stood listening. Then a shadowy smile crept into his eyes. He passed the feed to his horses while he listened to the sounds of someone approaching, and suddenly a girlish voice, hailing him by name, set him moving quickly to the doorway of the barn. His tongue moistened his thick lips behind the screen of his moustache.