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Yes, of course he was, and everybody knew it. Why, even that sour-faced old devil of a door-keeper at the Home put a tract on his bed every evening. Curse him and his "Drunkard, beware!" and every other rotten tract on intemperance. Well, he had been sober for a week now hadn't any money to get drunk with. If he had he certainly would get drunk, as quickly as he possibly could.
It was twice seen on the roof of the stable where that sour-faced, evil-eyed old mumbler, Jean Beaugrand, kept his horse, Sans Souci a beast that, spite of its hundred years or more, could and did leap every wall in Detroit, even the twelve-foot stockade of the fort, to steal corn and watermelons, and that had been seen in the same barn, sitting at a table, playing seven-up with his master, and drinking a liquor that looked like melted brass.
I gazed and forgave the sour-faced landlady her dining room; forgave the elderly parties their shawls and barley soup; forgot for a moment my weary thoughts of Peter Orme; forgot everything except that it was June, and moonlight and good to be alive. All the changes and events of that strange, eventful year came crowding to my mind as I crouched there at the window.
But the following night a tall, sour-faced girl, who wore pads, and with whom Kate had had some words concerning her coarse language, hit upon an ingenious device for 'queering the scene! Her trick was to burst into a roar of laughter just before she had time to say, 'A fat head. The others soon tumbled to the trick, and in a night or two they worked so well together that Kate grew nervous and she could not speak her lines.
"But I fear me there is that in his heart and his conscience which will only grow, while yonder sour-faced doctor, with whom I had to leave him at Cambridge, preaches to him of the perdition of Pope and Papists." "If his mother were indeed a concealed Papist," said Susan, "such sermons will only revolt the poor child." "Yea, truly.
"The pig was not dead," said his mother; "now make haste and go to bed. I don't want to have to nurse you to-morrow." The little boy obeyed, muttering to himself: "The pig was dead. I believe what I have seen. Mamma must have misunderstood me." Miss Rader was a tall, stiff, sour-faced lady of four-and-fifty.
One hears him called, by some who ought to know what they say and some who ought not, a crabbed, cold-hearted, sour-faced Yankee a kind of a visionary sore-head a cross-grained, egotistic recluse, even non-hearted. But it is easier to make a statement than prove a reputation.
It was indeed Link Merwell, sour-faced, and with that same cunning look as of old in his eyes. He kept on for fully a quarter of a mile, then suddenly plunged into a strip of woodland. There, beside a large stream of water, were the ruins of an old stone house. Link Merwell stopped running and after a stealthy look around, emitted a clear, short whistle. This he repeated twice.
But don't you think children need a little more brightness and life in their service to keep them interested?" He turned to his sour-faced elder with a charming air of deference which would have disarmed any man but Splinterin' Andra. But the elder's stick was already waving threateningly behind him, like the tail of a lion aroused.
"Take us over there," I cried excitedly to the guide. "There are our comrades, Alzura. I see Plaza, and Cordova, and the sour-faced old major. Viva! viva!" and I rose in the stirrups with delight. What explanation the Indian gave I do not know. We were plucked from the saddles and bandied about from one fellow to another in less than no time, every one helping to keep up a running fire of remarks.
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