“Now—it is going to be easy.”
He told Manon to fasten another rafter to the end of the wire that they had used for raising the end of the ridge-beam, he pulled it up, unfastened the wire, ran the rafter down the opposite slope of the partition wall, rolled it over till it was on a line with the rafter on the other side, shaped the upper end with the saw, and nailed it to the beam; with the two lower ends fastened to the sleepers on the wall Brent had completed his first span.
The rest was repetition, with Manon acting as ladder boy, and Paul working along a framework that grew stronger and more rigid with each pair of rafters that were fixed.
Half-way through the morning Brent told Manon to rest.
“You have another thirteen kilomètres to walk, and I can get along on my own.”
“Very well, I am going to cook your dinner.”
“Is that resting?”
“Of course. I sit on a chair between the stove and the table. But take care, you must not drop sawdust into my frying-pan.”
“I have too much respect for my dinner.”
So Manon collected wood and her pots and pans, and did her cooking in the roofless kitchen, while Brent scrambled up above, hammering, sawing, and whistling “Roses in Picardie,” his blue trousers more vivid than the blue of the sky. He was happy and strenuous, and kept up such a merry piping that he made Manon think of a jolly bird in a cage. She sat and watched him with soft eyes.