Suddenly the woman spoke. She turned back on the threshold of the
kitchen door through which her work had been taking her to and fro
during Garth's outbreak. Her voice was monotonous and smothered; it
had its share in her unnatural self-repression.
"Why don't you tell him to be quiet, Pete? You've been chopping wood
since daybreak to make up for what he didn't do last week, and you
only came in about ten minutes before he did. Why don't you speak
out? You're getting to be pretty close to a man now, and it isn't
suitable for you to let yourself be talked to that way. You always
stand like a fool and take it from him."
Pete turned. "Oh, well," he answered good-humoredly, "I guess maybe
he's tired. Let up, Hugh, will you? I'll finish your boot after
dinner."
"The hell you will! You'll do it now!" Venting on his brother his
anger at the woman's intervention, Garth swung his misshapen body
around the end of the table and thrust an elbow violently against
Pete's chest. The attack was so unexpected that Pete staggered, lost
his balance, and stepping down into the shallow depression of a
pebbled hearth, fell, twisting his ankle. The agony was sharp. After
a dumb minute he lifted a white face and pulled himself up, one hand
clutching the board mantel.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25