“Howdy,” says Hashknife, taking off his hat. “Nice day.” Glory kinda jerks back when she first sees us, but after the first look she kinda takes a deep breath and stares at us. I reckon she thought we was Willer Crickers at first.
Then she says kinda soft—
“You two!”
“Yes’m,” says I. “Same old two of us ma’am.”
Just then a little kid comes out beside Glory. He’s a little, round-eyed shaver, and he’s been crying dirty tears or has been crying tears on a dirty face, ’cause he sure is streaked.
“That’s his kid,” says Hashknife, kinda whispering.
“Whose kid?” asks Glory, but before Hashknife can answer her the old man comes out.
He brushes his hand across his eyes and stares at us.
“Yuh beat us up here, grampaw,” smiles Hashknife.
“Yes,” says he. “I—I reckon I did.”