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Updated: June 15, 2025
Then she hesitated, pausing in her work, her knife dropping into her lap, a half-whittled figure between her fingers. If not thirty-five dollars, then at least fifteen or sixteen, her share of it. But a feeling of reluctance, a sudden revolt against this intended generosity, arose in her. "No, no," she said to herself. "I'll give him ten dollars. I'll tell him it's all I can afford.
Getting out a season's cut with the flood-water is a pretty serious matter to a great many people, and if you insist on holding us up here in this slack water the situation will soon become alarming." "Ye finished?" demanded Reed grimly. "Yes," replied Orde. The old man cast from him his half-whittled piece of pine. He closed his jack-knife with a snap and thrust it in his pocket.
Eyes that fill now in surveying the tokens of his recent occupations and his lordly disregard of conventionalities, will flash petulantly upon books left, face downward, over night, on the piazza floor; muddy shoes kicked into the corner of the hall; the half-whittled cane and open knife on the sofa, and coats and caps everywhere except upon the hooks intended for them.
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