And Huldah went, glancing back to see that the man had seated himself once more in front of the huddled figure, looming above her, bending toward her; and that urgent whispered parley had begun again.
The proprietor of the Wagon Tire House was just turning her sizzling steak in its skillet when the door behind her opened a crack, and the gambler, as she had mentally dubbed him, put his head through.
“Come here,” he said.
Huldah grunted. “I am here,” she returned. “What is it you want?”
“I want to speak to you”—impatiently.
“Speak,” suggested the old woman.
“But I’ve got something to say that I don’t care to yell to every fool on the street.” He stared malevolently at the broad, blue calico back and half turned to retrace his steps; but no, he needed a woman’s help—he must have it; and he finally began, in an anxious, reluctant half whisper: “What do you think of her? Is she really sick?”
“I think she’ll die, all right,” answered the old woman, without turning her head or glancing up from her cooking.
“You do!” sneered the man, with a sudden loudness of tone. “You think she’ll die! You women are always using that word. I never saw a woman in a tight place yet but what she began whining that she believed it would kill her—that she’d die.”
“Well, and they die, too, sometimes—don’t they?”