Oh, Dad's language then! He swung his arms about and foamed at the mouth.
Dave edged away from him.
Joe came up waving triumphantly a chewed piece of the waistcoat. "D-d-did
it g-give them a buster, Dad?" he said, the sweat running over his face as
though a spring had broken out on top of his head. Dad jumped a log and
tried to unbuckle his strap and reach for Joe at the same time, but
Joe fled.
That threw a painful pall over everything. Dad declared he was sick and
tired of the whole thing, and would n't do another hand's-turn. Dave
meditated and walked along the fence, plucking off scraps of skin and hair
that here and there clung to the bent and battered wire.
We had just finished supper when old Bob Wren, a bachelor who farmed about
two miles from us, arrived. He used to come over every mail-night and
bring his newspaper with him. Bob could n't read a word, so he always got
Dad to spell over the paper to him. WE did n't take a newspaper.
Bob said there were clouds gathering behind Flat Top when he came in, and
Dad went out and looked, and for the fiftieth time that day prayed in his
own way for rain. Then he took the paper, and we gathered at the table to
listen.
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