Dad
objected. The man went off and brought a policeman. "Orright"--Dad
said--"TAKE him." The policeman took him. He took Dad too. The lawyer
got Dad off, but it cost us five bags of potatoes. Dad did n't grudge
them, for he reckoned we'd had value. Besides, he was even with the
Donovans for the two cows.
Chapter XI.
A Splendid Year For Corn.
We had just finished supper. Supper! dry bread and sugarless tea. Dad
was tired out and was resting at one end of the sofa; Joe was stretched at
the other, without a pillow, and his legs tangled up among Dad's. Bill
and Tom squatted in the ashes, while Mother tried to put the fat-lamp into
burning order by poking it with a table-fork.
Dad was silent; he seemed sad, and lay for some time gazing at the roof.
He might have been watching the blaze of the glorious moon or counting the
stars through the gaps in the shingles, but he was n't--there was no such
sentiment in Dad. He was thinking how his long years of toil and worry
had been rewarded again and again by disappointment--wondering if ever
there would be a turn in his luck, and how he was going to get enough out
of the land that season to pay interest and keep Mother and us in bread
and meat.
Pages:
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97