Mrs. Egg fell back against the ice chest and squeaked: "You mean you know this——"
"Hush up, Mamma!"
"But he walked part the way from San Antonio. He——"
"He ain't your father," said Adam, "so don't cry. Is there any maple sugar? The grub on the train was fierce."
Mrs. Egg brought him the tin case of maple sugar. Adam selected a chunk of the brown stuff and bit a lobe of it. He was silent. Mrs. Egg marvelled at him. His sisters had hinted that he wasn't clever. She stood in awe, although her legs ached. Adam finished the lump of maple sugar and rose. He leaned on the shelves with his narrow waist curved against them and studied a row of quince-preserve jars. His nose wrinkled.
He asked, "You been fumigatin'?"
"Fumigatin'! Why, Dammy, there ain't been a disease in the house since you had whoopin' cough."
"Sulphur," Adam drawled.
"Why, Dammy Egg! I never used sulphur for nothin' in my life!"
He took a jar of preserves and ripped off the paraffin wafer that covered the top. Then he set the jar aside and sat down on the floor. Mrs. Egg watched him unlace his shoes.