warn’t fer that I’d be dry ez punk. ’Deed, Mr. Trench, I needs money. Jean’s mighty sick.”

“No, she isn’t,” said Caleb. “I spoke to her at the market this morning.”

Zeb’s mouth opened again, like a stranded fish, and he stared; but he wanted the money. “She wuz took sick after that,” he explained, brightening, “she asked me ter git it. Gimme er dollah, Mr. Trench.”

“No,” said Caleb.

“Fifty cents,” whined Zeb, but a sullen look was coming into his light eyes.

“No!”

[64]“Twenty-five cents!” pleaded the borrower, wheedling, but with angry eyes.

[64]

“Not a cent; you’d spend it on whiskey,” Caleb said.

Zeb’s face changed, the cringing attitude of a seeker of a favor fell from him, he snarled. “You’re a low-down, mean, sniveling shopkeeper!” he began. “I believe Jean’s tellin’ on yo’, sure enough, I—”

Caleb rose from his seat, his great figure towering over the drunkard, as he took him by the collar and thrust him out the door. “Go home,” he said, “and don’t you ever come here again!”

Zeb fell out of his hand and shambled up against the silver birch, sputtering. He hated Trench, but he was afraid to give voice to his wrath. Besides, Shot was between them now, every hair erect on the ridge of his spine. Zeb shook his fist and trembled.

“Go home,” said Trench again, and then to the dog, “Come, Shot!” and he turned back contemptuously.

As he did so, a tall farmer in brown homespun, with a wide-brimmed straw hat, drove up in his light wagon and got down to speak to him. The newcomer’s eyes fell on Zeb. “Drunk again,” he remarked.

Trench nodded, and the two went into the office.

Zeb Bartlett sank down under the trees and wept; he was just far enough gone to dissolve with self-pity. He believed Trench to be a monster who owed him two dollars for his very existence. He sat under the silver birch and babbled and shook his fist. Then his thirst overcame him, and he gathered himself[65] together again and shambled down the road toward the nearest 

 Prev. P 39/183 next