“Sure they did; but he didn't have cholera; and there were plenty of hogs left in the world, weren't there?”
“Well, but, if they weren't his, how could they do him any good?” Eric asked, in astonishment.
“Oh, scat! He could have had lots of fun with other people's hogs. He was a chump, Lou Sandberg. To kill yourself for a pig—think of that, now!” Nils laughed all the way downstairs, and quite embarrassed little Eric, who fell to scrubbing his face and hands at the tin basin. While he was parting his wet hair at the kitchen looking glass, a heavy tread sounded on the stairs. The boy dropped his comb. “Gracious, there's Mother. We must have talked too long.” He hurried out to the shed, slipped on his overalls, and disappeared with the milking pails.
Mrs. Ericson came in, wearing a clean white apron, her black hair shining from the application of a wet brush.
“Good morning, Mother. Can't I make the fire for you?”
“No, thank you, Nils. It's no trouble to make a cob fire, and I like to manage the kitchen stove myself” Mrs. Ericson paused with a shovel full of ashes in her hand. “I expect you will be wanting to see your brothers as soon as possible. I'll take you up to Anders' place this morning. He's threshing, and most of our boys are over there.”
“Will Olaf be there?”
Mrs. Ericson went on taking out the ashes, and spoke between shovels. “No; Olaf's wheat is all in, put away in his new barn. He got six thousand bushel this year. He's going to town today to get men to finish roofing his barn.”
“So Olaf is building a new barn?” Nils asked absently.
“Biggest one in the county, and almost done. You'll likely be here for the barn-raising. He's going to have a supper and a dance as soon as everybody's done threshing. Says it keeps the voters in good humour. I tell him that's all nonsense; but Olaf has a head for politics.”