These
"finical" things of saying good morning and good night are not
much practiced in such homes as Grant McLane's.
"Need some help? I'm ready to take a hand. Got on my regimentals
this morning."
Grant looked at him a moment.
"You look like it."
"Gimme a hold on that fork, and I'll show you. I'm not so soft as I
look, now you bet."
He laid hold upon the fork in Grant's hands, who r~ leased it
sullenly and stood back sneering. Howard struck the fork into the
pile in the old way, threw his left hand to the end of the polished
handle, brought it down into the hollow of his thigh, and laid out
his strength till the handle bent like a bow. "Oop she rises!" he
called laughingly, as the whole pile began slowly to rise, and
finally rolled upon the high load.
"Oh, I ain't forgot how to do it," he laughed as he looked around at
the boy, who was studying the jacket and hat with a devouring
gaze.
Grant was studying him too, but not in admiration.
"I shouldn't say you had," said the old man, tugging at the forkful.
'Mighty funny to come out here and do a little of this. But if you
had to come here and do it all the while, you wouldn't look so
white and soft in the hands," Grant said as they moved on to
another pile.
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