The Twins of Suffering Creek Part 26

He perspired in reality now, and let his knees drop out of his arms.

This movement was his salvation. With the relaxing of his physical effort the restraining grip upon his thinking powers gave way.

Inspiration leaped, and he found himself talking again almost before he was aware of it.

"You're a real pretty gal, Birdie," he heard himself saying. "Now, maybe you got some kids?" he added, with an automatic grin of ingratiation.

How the inquiry slipped out he never knew. How it had been formulated in his brain remained a riddle that he was never able to solve. But there it was, plain and decided. There was no s.h.i.+rking it. It was out in all its naked crudeness.

There was a moment's pause which might have been hours, it seemed so horribly long to the waiting man. He became dimly aware of a sudden hardening in Birdie's eyes, a mounting flush to her cheeks and forehead, a sudden, astounding physical movement, and then the work-worn palm of her hand came into contact with his cheek with such force as to prove the value to her physical development of the strenuous labors which were hers.

He never thought a woman's hand could sting so much. He never thought that he could be made to feel so mean as this girl's sudden vehemence made him feel.

"How dare you, you b.u.mming remittance feller?" she cried, with eyes blazing and bosom heaving. "How dare you--you--you--" And then she further punished him with that worst of all feminine punishments--she burst into tears.

The next few moments were never quite clear to the distracted and unthinking Toby. He never really knew what actually happened. He had a confused memory of saying things by way of apology, of making several pacific overtures, which met with physical rebuffs of no mean order, and tearful upbraidings which were so mixed up with choking sniffs as to be fortunately more or less unintelligible. Finally, when he came to his ordinary senses, and the dead level of his understanding was fully restored, he found himself grasping the girl firmly by the waist, her golden head lying snugly on his ma.s.sive shoulder, and with a distinct recollection of warm ripe lips many times pressed upon his own. All of which was eminently pleasing.

When once these comfortable relations were thoroughly established, he had no difficulty in clearing the clouds from her horizon, and relegating her tears into the background. Her nature was of a much too smiling order to need a great deal of coaxing. But explanation was needed, and explanation never came easily to this stalwart dullard.

"Y'see, what I meant was," he said, with a troubled frown of intense concentration, "maybe you know about kids. I didn't mean offense, I sure didn't. Everybody knows our Birdie to be jest a straight, up-standin', proper gal, who wouldn't hurt n.o.body, nor nuthin', 'cep'

it was a buzzin' fly around the supper hash. No feller don't take no account o' her bein' a pot-wallopin', hash-slingin' mutton rustler. It sure ain't no worse than ladlin' swill to prize hogs. It's jest in the way o' business. 'Sides, she don't need to care what no fellers thinks. She ain't stuck on men-folk wuth a cent."

"That I sure ain't," a.s.serted a smothered voice from the bosom of his dirty s.h.i.+rt.

"That you ain't," he rea.s.sured her. "You're jest a dandy gal as 'ud make any feller with a good patch o' pay dirt a real elegant sort o'

wife."

The golden head snuggled closer into his s.h.i.+rt.

"You ain't got no patch o' pay dirt, Toby?" she inquired.

Toby shook his head all unsuspiciously.

"No sech luck," he a.s.serted. Then with a sudden burst of gallantry, "If I had I don't guess there'd be no Birdie Mason chasin' around these parts unbespoke."

The girl's eyes developed an almost childish simplicity as they looked up into his foolish face.

"What d'you mean?"

"Mean? Why, jest nothin', only--"

Toby laughed uneasily. And a shadow crossed Birdie's face.

"I don't guess the patch o' pay dirt matters a heap," she said, with subtle encouragement.

"That's so," agreed Toby.

"Y'see, a gal don't marry a feller fer his patch o' pay dirt," she went on, doing her best.

"Sure she don't."

But Toby's enthusiasm was rapidly cooling. The girl breathed a sigh of perfect content. And her heavy breathing was fast making a moist patch amidst the gravel stains on his s.h.i.+rt front.

"She jest loves a feller--"

Toby's arm slipped from her waist, and a hunted look crept into his foolish eyes.

"An' she don't care nothin'--"

The man was suddenly seized with a racking fit of coughing, which somehow jolted the girl into an upright position.

"Course she don't," he agreed, when his paroxysm had pa.s.sed. "Say, you don't think I got newmony?" he inquired, feeling the need for an abrupt change of subject. "I was allus weak-chested as a kid. An'

talkin' o' kids," he hurried on, in his terror recalling the object of his visit, "guess you ken put me wise."

"Kids? I wasn't talkin' of kids," protested the girl a little angrily.

She was hurt. Cruelly hurt. All her best efforts had gone for nothing.

A moment before Toby had seemed so nearly hers, and now--

"No. I didn't guess you were. But--that is--you see--"

The man floundered heavily and broke off. His look was one of comical confusion and trouble. So much so that it was too much for the girl's good nature.

"Whose kids?" she demanded, the familiar smile creeping back into her eyes, and her lips pursing dryly. "Yours?"

"Oh, no," denied the man quickly. "Not mine. It's Zip's. Y'see, since his wife's lit out he's kind o' left with 'em. An' he's that fool-headed he don't know how to raise 'em proper. So I guessed I'd help him. Now, if you put me wise--"

"You help raise Zip's kids? Gee!" The girl slid off the table and stood eyeing him, her woman's humor tickled to the limit.

But Toby did not realize it. He was in deadly earnest now.

"Yes," he said simply. Then, with a gleam of intelligence, "How'd you raise 'em?"

The girl was suddenly stirred to a feeling of good-humored malice.

"How'd I raise 'em? Why, it ain't jest easy."

"It sure ain't," agreed Toby heartily. "Now, how'd you feed 'em?"

Birdie became judicially wise.

"Well," she began, "you can't jest feed 'em same as ord'nary folks.

They need speshul food. You'll need to give 'em boiled milk plain or with pap, you kin git fancy crackers an' soak 'em. Then ther's beef-tea. Not jest ord'nary beef-tea. You want to take a boilin' o'

bones, an' boil for three hours, an' then skim well. After that you might let it cool some, an' then you add flavorin'. Not too much, an'

not too little, jest so's to make it elegant tastin'. Then you cook toasties to go with it, or give 'em crackers. Serve it to 'em hot, an'

jest set around blowin' it so it don't scald their little stummicks.

Got that? You can give 'em eggs, but not too much meat. Meat well done an' cut up wi' vegetables an' gravy, an' make 'em eat it with a spoon.

Knives is apt to cut 'em. Eggs light boiled, an' don't let 'em rub the yolk in their hair, nor slop gravy over their bow-ties. Candy, some, but it ain't good for their teeth, which needs seein' to by a dentist, anyway. Say, if they're cuttin' teeth you ken let 'em chew the beef bones, it helps 'em thro'. Fancy canned truck ain't good 'less it's baked beans, though I 'lows beans cooked reg'lar is best. You soak 'em twenty-four hours, an' boil 'em soft, an' see the water don't boil away. Fruit is good if they ain't subjec' to colic, which needs poultices o' linseed, an' truck like that. Don't let 'em eat till they're blown up like frogs, an'--you got all that?"

"Ye-es," replied the bewildered man a little helplessly.