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“Here is Isobel. What kept you so late, young lady?” As Mr. Crump spoke he viewed the young girl with justifiable pride. Billy slipped quickly to cover again where he could watch unseen. The men’s faces were black with passion, and their low, intense words seemed all the more deadly because strange, foreign. A coat split down the back with a ripping report, and the boy saw the flash of a knife, and turned away feeling sick. By this time Mr. Wopp was bearing a length of pipe into the yard. The parlor looked like a morgue with its inanimate objects lying bidden under sheets and cloths of varying degrees of past usefulness. Through a hole of one sheet could be seen the listless towzled head of Hannah, her faded wax countenance betraying the need of a tonic..
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“Please, Mith Wopp, the latht windthorm upthet our hen-houth.” “La now! An’ why do you say that, my dear?” inquired Mrs. Wopp. “Set up straight, Moses, yer back looks like you was packin’ a sack of pertaters.” “You’d think this here day’s trip to Calgary was a journey to Jeroosalem,” he complained, all his slips of paper used up in jottings to remind him of duties imposed. “Suppose you go down to the creek,” she replied with a peculiar smile. “May Nell and the twins went there some time ago. Harold, too.”.
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