“Well, Yaller Top, what d’you want?”
But this time she held her ground, though with quivering lips.
“Yaller Top ain’t my name ’tall,” she explained with baby politeness. “It’s Rosy-Lilly; ’n’ I jes’ 122 thought you might want me to sit on yer knee a little, teeny minit.”
Much taken aback, McWha glanced about the room with a loutish grin. Then he flushed angrily, as he felt the demand of the sudden silence. Looking down again, with a scowl, at the expectant little face of Rosy-Lilly, he growled: “Well, not as I knows of!” and rose to his feet, thrusting her brusquely aside.
“Ain’t he uglier’n hell?” murmured Bird Pigeon to Walley Johnson, spitting indignantly on the stove-leg. “He’d ’a’ cuffed the kid ef he da’st, he glared at her that ugly!”
“Like to see ’im try it!” responded Johnson through his teeth, with a look to which his blank eye lent mysterious menace.
The time soon came, however, when McWha resumed his old seat and his old attitude on the bench. Rosy-Lilly avoided him for two evenings, but on the third the old fascination got the better of her pique. McWha saw her coming, and, growing self-conscious, he hurriedly started up a song with the full strength of his big voice.
The song was a well-known one, and nothing in it to redden the ear of a maiden; but it was profane with that rich, ingenious amplitude of profanity which seems almost instinctive among the lumbermen––a sort of second mother-tongue to them. Had it been any one but McWha who 123 started it, nothing would have been said; but, as it was, Walley Johnson took alarm on the instant. To his supersensitive watchfulness, McWha was singing that song “jest a purpose to be ugly to the kid.” The fact that “the kid” would hardly understand a word of it, did not occur to him. Rising up from his bench behind the stove he shouted out across the smoky room: “Shet up that, Red!”
The song stopped. Every one looked inquiringly at Johnson. For several moments there was silence, broken only by an uneasy shuffling of feet. Then McWha got up slowly, his eyebrows bristling, his angry eyes little pin-points. First he addressed himself to Johnson.
“What the ––– business is’t o’ yourn what I sing?” he demanded, opening and shutting his big fingers.