“Yes, sir,” piped the stranger. Billy snorted at the title. “I has some personal belongin’s which is valuable to me.” He opened the bag and produced a cheap portrait of a rather cheap-looking woman. “My mother that was,” said he.
Billy snorted again and went inside. He hated sentiment of all kinds.
The two men sat opposite each other and ate supper, which was served by the red-cheeked girl. The stranger kept his eyes on his plate while she was in the room. He perched on the edge of the bench with his feet tucked under him and resting on the toes. When she approached, the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms grew rigid with embarrassment, causing strange awkward movements of the hands. He answered in monosyllables.
Billy ate expansively and earnestly. Toward the close of the meal Charley slipped into place beside him. Charley was out of humor, and found the meat cold.
“Damn yore soul, Nell,” he cried, “this yere ain’t fitten fer a hog to eat!”
The girl did not mind; nor did Billy. It was the country’s mode of speech. The stranger dropped his knife.
“I don’t wonder you don’t like it, then,” said he, with a funny little blaze of anger.
“Meanin’ what?” shouted Charley, threateningly.
“You mustn’t speak to a lady that way,” replied the stranger, firmly, in his little piping voice.
Billy caught the point and exploded in a mighty guffaw.