"Go on in and wash yourselves!" he said as soon as speech became
possible. "Ain't you heard what your papa told you!"
They were not afraid of Mr. Ledlie; they merely found him
unsympathetic, and therefore concerned themselves with him not at all.
Ignoring him, Jack said, addressing his father: "I nearly caught a
snake up the road. Gee! But he was a dandy."
"He had stripes," said Doris solemnly.
"He wiggled," asserted little Catharine, and her eyes became very
round.
"What kind was he, papa?" inquired Jack.
"Oh, just a snake," replied Greensleeve vaguely.
The eager faces of the children clouded with disappointment; dawning
expectancy faded; it was the old, old tragedy of bread desired, of the
stone offered.
"I liked that snake," muttered Jack. "I wanted to keep him for a pet.
I wanted to know what kind he was. He seemed very friendly."
"Next time," suggested Ledlie, "you pet him on the head with a rock."
"What?"
"Snakes is no good. There's pizen into 'em. You kill every one you see
an' don't ask questions."
In the boy's face intelligence faded. Impulse lay stunned after its
headlong collision with apathy, and died out in the clutch of
ignorance.
"Is that so, papa?" he asked, dully.
"Yes, I guess so," nodded Greensleeve. "Mr. Ledlie knows all about
snakes and things."
"Go on in an' wash!" repeated Ledlie. "You don't git no supper if you
ain't cleaned up for table. Your papa says so, don't you, Pete?"
Greensleeve usually said what anybody told him to say.
"Walk quietly," he added; "your poor mamma's asleep."
Reluctantly the children turned toward the house, gazing inquiringly
up at the curtained window of their mother's room as they trooped
toward the veranda.
Jack swung around on the lower step: "Papa!" he shouted.
"Well?"
"I forget what her name is!"
"Athalie."