Part 10 (1/2)
One day, as they were eating their supper of sour bread and canned beans, Gearheart irritatedly broke out: ”Ans, why don't you git married? It 'u'd simplify matters a good 'eal if you should. 'Old Russ'
is no good.”
”What's the matter with _your_ gittin' married?” replied Anson, imperturbably pinching oil the cooked part of the loaf, skilfully leaving the doughy part.
”I ain't on the marry; that's all.”
”Neither am I.”
”Well, you ought to be.”
”Don't see it.”
”Well, now, let me show it. We can't go on this way. I'm gittin' so poor you can count my ribs through my s.h.i.+rt. Jest think how comfortable it would make things! No more awful coffee; no more canned baked beans; no more cussed, infernal, everlastin', leathery flapjacks; no more soggy bread--confound it!” Here he seized the round inner part of the loaf, from which the crust had been flaked, and flung it through the open door far down toward the garden.
”Bert! that's the last bit of bread we've got in the house.”
”What's the odds? We couldn't eat it.”
”We could 'a' baked it over.”
”We _could_ eat dog, but we don't,” replied Bert gloomily. His temper was getting frightful of late.
”We'll be all right when Flaxen comes back,” said Ans, laughing.
”Say, now, you've said that a thousand times this winter. You know well enough Flaxen's out o' this. We ain't countin' on her,” blurted Gearheart, just in the mood to say disagreeable things.
”Wha' d' y' mean? Ain't she comin' back in June?”
”Probably; but she won't stay.”
”No: that's so. She'll have to go back in September; but that's three months, an' we may sell out by that time if we have a good crop.
Anyway, we'll live high fer a spell. We ought to have a letter from her to-night, hadn't we?”
”I'm goin' down to see, if you'll wash the dishes.”
”All right. Take a horse.”
”No: the horses are tired. I'll foot it.”
”Wal, ain't you too?”
”Want anythin' from the store?”
”Yes: git a hunk o' bacon an' some canned corn, tomatoes, an' some canned salmon; if y' think we can stand the pressure, bring home a can o' peaches.”
And so Gearheart started off for town in the dusk, afoot, in order to spare the horse, as though he had not himself walked all day long in the soft, muddy ground. The wind was soft and moist, and the light of the stars coming out in the east fell upon Ins upturned eyes with unspeakable majesty. Yet he saw them but dimly. He was dreaming of a face which was often in his mind now--a face not unlike Flaxen's, only older, more glorified, more womanly. He was asking himself some searching questions to-night as his tired limbs dragged themselves over the gra.s.sy road.
What was he toiling for, anyway? What mattered all this terrible tramping to and fro--was it an end or only a means? Would there ever come anything like satisfaction of desire? Life for him had been a silent, gloomy, and almost purposeless struggle. He had not looked forward to anything very definite, though vaguely he had hoped for something better.
As his eyes fell upon the twinkling, yellow lights of the village his thoughts came back to Flaxen and to the letter which he expected to receive from her. He quickened his steps, though his feet were sore and his limbs stiff and lame.
The one little street presented its usual Sat.u.r.day-night appearance.