When it was over, Uncle
Abe remarked "That's a regular church-yarder yer got, young feller."
The young fellow, too exhausted to speak, even had he intended doing
so, turned his head in a quick, half-terrified way and gave it two
short jerky nods.
The settler had brought a bottle out--it was gin they kept for
medicine. They gave him some hot, and he took it in his sudden,
frightened, half-animal way, like a dog that was used to ill-usage.
"He ought to be in the hospital," said the mother.
"He ought to be in bed right now at once," snapped the sister.
"Couldn't you stay till morning, or at least till the rain clears
up?" she said to the elder man. "No one ain't likely to come near
this place in this weather."
"If we did he'd stand a good chance to get both hospital and a bed
pretty soon, and for a long stretch, too," said the dark man grimly.
"No, thank you all the same, miss--and missus--I'll get him fixed up
all right and safe before morning."
The father came into the end room with a couple of small feed boxes
and both boys tumbled under the blankets. The father emptied some
chaff, from a bag in the corner, into the boxes, and then dished some
corn from another bag into the chaff and mixed it well with his hands.
Then he went out with the boxes under his arms, and the boys got up
again.
The mother had brought two chairs from the front room (I remember the
kind well: black painted hardwood that were always coming to pieces
and with apples painted on the backs).
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