“Yes, sir.”
“Eph Odell, I ’ll bet my hat!”
The girl nodded, and blushed and hung her head.
“How do you know?”
“Mr. Odell ‘lowed I mought look fer him.”
Abner Calihan laughed slowly and put his arm around his daughter, and together they went toward the steps of the kitchen door.
“You seed yore old daddy whipped clean out to-day,” he said, tentatively. “I reckon yo ‘re ashamed to see him sech a coward an’ have him sneak away like a dog with his tail tucked ’tween his legs. Bill Odell is a power in this community.”
She laughed with him, but she did not understand his banter, and preceded him into the kitchen. It was lighted by a large tallow-dip in the center of the table. There was much on the white cloth to tempt a hungry laborer’s appetite—a great dish of greasy string-beans, with pieces of bacon, a plate of smoking biscuits, and a platter of fried ham in brown gravy. But he was not hungry. Slowly and clumsily he drew up his chair and sat down opposite his wife and daughter. He slid a quivering thumb under the edge of his inverted plate and turned it half over, but noticing that they had their hands in their laps and had reverently bowed their heads, he cautiously replaced it. In a flash he comprehended what was expected of him. The color surged into his homely face. He played with his knife for a moment, and then stared at them stubbornly, almost defiantly. They did not look up, but remained motionless and patiently expectant. The dread of the protracted silence, for which he was becoming more and more responsible, conquered him. He lowered his head and spoke in a low, halting tone:
“Good Lord, Father of us all, have mercy on our sins, and make us thankful fer these, Thy many blessings. Amen.”