He had taken only an introductory mouthful, however, when the door parted a crack and Eleazer crept cautiously through the opening.
For a moment he stood transfixed, viewing the scene with amazement; then he burst out in a torrent of reproach.
"'Lish Winslow, what on earth are you doin'? Here I've been waitin' outside in the wind, ketchin' my death of cold an' worryin' lest you was dead—hearin' neither word nor sign of you—an' you settin' here by the stove rockin' an' eatin' pie! What do you think you come for, anyhow?"
"I know, Eleazer, I know," Elisha stammered, ducking his head before the accusing finger of his colleague. "It may, mebbe, seem queer to you. I just hadn't got round to the business in hand, that's all. I'm comin' to it."
"Comin' to it? You don't look as if you was."
"I am," protested the sheriff, cramming the turnover into his mouth and drawing his hand hurriedly across his lips. "I'm comin' to it in time. Be patient, Eleazer! Be patient, can't you?"
"I've been patient half an hour a'ready an' you ain't, apparently, even made a beginnin'."
"Yes I have, Eleazer. I've made a start. The pie's et. That's done an' over."
"But you had no right to stop an' eat. You had no business eatin' pie, anyhow. Ain't you got indigestion?"
"I—wal, yes. I do recall havin' a qualm or two of dyspepsia," Elisha owned in a conciliatory tone. "That's gone, though. I reckon the fresh air kinder scat it off. I'd clean forgot about it."