Kinemon
lay very still on the couch; his pipe, beside him on the floor, had
spilled its live core, burning into a length of rag carpet. His face,
hung with shadows like the marks of a sooty finger, was glistening with
fine sweat. Not a whisper of complaint passed his dry lips. When his
wife approached he attempted to smooth out his corrugated countenance.
His eyes, as tenderly blue as flowers, gazed at her with a faint
masking of humor.
"This is worse'n usual," she said sharply. "And I ain't going to have
you fill yourself with any more of that patent trash. You don't spare
me by not letting on. I can tell as soon as you're miserable. David can
fetch the doctor from Crabapple to-night if you don't look better."
"But I am," he assured her. "It's just a comeback of an old ache. There
was a power of heavy work to that fence."
"You'll have to get more to help you," she continued. "That Galt'll let
you kill yourself and not turn a hand. He can afford a dozen. I don't
mind housing and cooking for them. David's only tol'able for lifting,
too, while he's growing."
"Why," David protested, "it ain't just nothing what I do. I could do
twice as much. I don't believe Allen could helt more'n me when he was
sixteen. It ain't just nothing at all."
He was disturbed by this assault upon his manhood; if his muscles were
still a little stringy it was surprising what he could accomplish with
them. He would show her to-morrow.
"And," he added impetuously, "I can shoot better than Allen right now.
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