On arriving, the party found the shy, petite creature quietly engaged in her household duties, and retired abashed and discomfited.
But the sensitive woman did not easily recover from the shock of this extraordinary outrage.
It was with difficulty she regained her equanimity sufficiently to release her lover from the closet in which he was concealed, and escape with him.
She left a boy of three years to comfort her bereaved husband.
The Old Man’s present wife had been his cook. She was large, loyal, and aggressive.
Before he could reply, Joe Dimmick suggested with great directness that it was the “Old Man’s house,” and that, invoking the Divine Power, if the case were his own, he would invite who he pleased, even if in so doing he imperilled his salvation. The Powers of Evil, he further remarked, should contend against him vainly.
All this delivered with a terseness and vigour lost in this necessary translation.
“In course. Certainly. Thet’s it,” said the Old Man with a sympathetic frown. “Thar’s no trouble about thet. It’s my own house, built every stick on it myself. Don’t you be afeared o’ her, boys. She may cut up a trifle rough—ez wimmin do—but she’ll come round.”
Secretly the Old Man trusted to the exultation of liquor and the power of a courageous example to sustain him in such an emergency.
As yet, Dick Bullen, the oracle and leader of Simpson’s Bar, had not spoken. He now took his pipe from his lips.