“I dunno,” continued the foreman; “another Doc is here, too. He come with a train nurse n’hour ago. Looks kinda bad to me, Elmer.”
Odell gazed stupidly at Lister.
“What other Doc?” he demanded.
“Old Doc Benson. Doc Wand sent Mazie for him.”
Odell said nothing. After a moment or two he walked slowly toward the house.
In the kitchen a neighbour, one Susan Hagan, a gross widow, was waddling around getting dinner, perspiring and garrulous. Two or three farm hands, in bantering conversation, stood washing or drying their faces at the sink.
Mazie, the big, buxom daughter of Ed Lister, moved leisurely about, setting the table. She was laughing, as usual, at the men’s repartee.
But when Odell appeared the clatter of the roller-towel ceased. So did Mazie’s laughter and the hired men’s banter.
Mrs. Hagan was the first to recover her tongue:
“Now, Elmer,” she began in unctuous tones, “you set right down here and eat a mite o’ ham——” She already had him by the sleeve of his canvas jacket. She grasped a smoking fry-pan in the other hand. The smoke from it blew into Odell’s face.