“Nothin’,” he said, “till I get the pull to leave here.”
“To leave Inch?” said his father, incredulously.
“To leave here,” the Inger repeated, throwing out his arm to the wood. “This is good enough for me—for a while yet.”
“I thought mebbe the society down there,” said his father, with a jerk of his head to the lights in the valley, “was givin’ you some call to sit by.”
The Inger sprang up.
“So it is,” he said, “to-night. Bunchy’s gettin’ spliced.”
“Who’s the antagonist?” asked the other.
“The Moor girl,” said the Inger. “Bunchy’s a fine lot to draw her,” he added. “She’s too good a hand for him. Want to go down and see it pulled off?” he asked.
His father hesitated, looking down the valley to the humble sparkling of Inch.
“I don’t reckon I really want to get drunk to-night,” he said slowly. “I’ll save up till I do.”