Lon, otherwise Alonzo Gates, hired man and general factotum, made no response to the challenge, but fell to dusting the rug vigorously. Sam, gloomy browed, drew nearer.
“Tell you, Lon, I could have gone. No fun, though—ride’s too cold. That’s the trouble with this weather—no coasting, no skating, no football, nothing!”
“So?” said the man non-committally.
Hobe, the barn cat, sauntered out of the door. Sam kicked at the animal, which took refuge behind a wooden bucket standing just inside the sill, and from this cover snarled defiance. Whereupon Sam kicked again. This time his foot struck something—the bucket. Over it went, and out shot a gallon or two of soapy water. Hobe darted back into the barn. Lon moved aside nimbly, but not nimbly enough. Splash! went the water upon his boots.
“Wal, now, but you have gone and done it!” he ejaculated. “Nice mess to clean up, ain’t it?”
In Sam’s perverse mood the one thing he cared for was to hide the regret he felt.
“Huh! Oughtn’t to have stuff standing round like that. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Lon paused in his labors. “My! but this world’s awful crowded this mornin’, ain’t it?” he remarked. “First there wasn’t room for you ’n’ Hobe; then you jest couldn’t stand for that bucket treadin’ on your toes. Wal, wal!”
Sam snorted wrathfully. What wouldn’t he have given for speech so cuttingly sarcastic that Lon must throw up his hands and beg mercy! But, effective words failing him, he could do no better than offer sounds which were disagreeable rather than intelligible.
Lon chuckled; then grew serious. “See here, Sam!” said he. “I kind o’ guess this is hedgehog day for you, ain’t it?”