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Haskins listened eagerly to this important question, but Council was coolly eating a dried apple which he had speared out of a barrel with his knife. Butler studied him carefully. "Well, knocks me out of twenty-five dollars interest." "My relation'll need all he's got t' git his crops in," said Council, in the same, indifferent way. "Well, all right; say wait," concluded Butler.
At a turn in the wood, he met a negro boy with a tin bucket on his head. Harry knew him. It was Tom Haskins. "Hello, Tom!" said Harry, stopping for a moment; "I want you." "What you want, Mah'sr Harry?" asked Tom. "I want you to come to Aunt Judy's cabin and carry some messages over to Hetertown for me." "When you want me?" said Tom; "to-morrer mornin'?" "No; I want you to-night. This minute.
And "Good-night, Pete," came from the house. "Good-night, Ma!" shrilled Pete, blushing. "I'm plumb sore!" asserted Haskins. "'Good-night, boys, is good enough for us. But did you hear what come after! I kin see who gits all the extra pie around this here ranch! I've half a mind to quit." "What eatin' pie?" "Nope! Joshin' Ma. She allus gits the best of us."
Haskins smiled genially at Tom, and said by way of explanation: "I liked your place so well I brought them up to see if my fairy tales were true." Upon which Tom naturally did his best to make the fairy tales seem true, and thought, by the signs he noted, that he had succeeded.
They rode the rest of the way home in silence. And when the red light of the lamp shone out into the darkness of the cold and windy night, and he thought of this refuge for his children and wife, Haskins could have put his arm around the neck of his burly companion and squeezed him like a lover. But he contented himself with saying, "Steve Council, you'll git y'r pay f'r this some day."
The girl, who was tying her wardrobe up in a napkin, heard him and said, "There is no lying down here, not much." Prof. Haskins was shocked that any female should thus mistake him for a democrat, and falling over a zinc trunk head first, he went back to his room to send his son Harry out to help. Mr.
"Why, Haskins is one of my best friends, generally," continued Perkins. "I don't see anything funny about it. Just because we both happen to be dragged into politics on opposite sides at the same moment is no reason why we should begin cutting each other's throats, my dear. In fact, with balances of power springing up all over town like mushrooms, we have become companions in misery."
"But you must remember that he is not strong," said Bob. "He has not yet fully recovered from the effects of his wound." "I don't believe a word of it," declared Bristow. "He's just as able to march and cook his own grub and pitch his own tent as we are. It makes me sick to see how that man Haskins waits on him."
The discussion became warm, and finally they compromised by agreeing that McKittrick should rush into the rooms and drag them out of the fire and smoke and hand them to Mr. Rankin at the foot of the first pair of stairs, who would dispose of them in safety. They both agreed that the first outside vandal who laid a hand on them should die. The first trouble they had was with Prof. Haskins.
Everybody does." "It's a curious kind of lonesomeness; but, all right, I will." "Thorndike, isn't that Plug you're riding an assert of the scrap you and Buffalo Bill had with the late Blake Haskins and his pal a few months back?" "Yes, this is Mongrel and not a half-bad horse, either." "I've noticed he keeps up his lick first-rate. Say isn't it a gaudy morning?" "Right you are!"
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