The Black Creek Stopping-House | Page 4

bushy eyebrows,
their fierce black eyes, the knives which they carried in their belts, and
their general manner of living, gave some ground to this insinuation.
The Brydon brothers did not work with that vigor and zeal which
brings success to the farmer. They began late and quit early, with
numerous rests in between. They showed a delightfully child-like trust
in Nature and her methods, for in the springtime, instead of planting
their potatoes in the ground the way they saw other people doing it,
they sprinkled them around the "fireguard," believing that the birds of
the air strewed leaves over them, or the rain washed them in, or in some
mysterious way they made a bed for themselves in the soil.
They bought a cow from one of the neighbors, but before the summer
was over brought her back indignantly, declaring that she would give
no milk. Randolph declared that he knew she had it, for she had plenty
the last time he milked her, and that was several days ago--she should
have more now. It came out in the evidence that they only took from
the cow the amount of milk that they needed, reasoning that she had a
better way of keeping it than they had. The cow's former owner
exonerated her from all blame in the matter, saying that "Rosie" was all
right as a cow; but, of course, she was "no bloomin' refrigerator!"
There was only one day in the week when the Brydon brothers could
work with any degree of enjoyment, and that was on Sunday, when
there was the added zest of wickedness. To drive the oxen up and down
the field in full view of an astonished and horrified neighborhood
seemed to take away in large measure from the "beastliness of labor,"
and then, too, the Sabbath calm of the Black Creek valley seemed to
stimulate their imagination as they discoursed loudly and elaborately
on the present and future state of the oxen, consigning them without
hope of release to the remotest and hottest corner of Gehenna. But the
complacent old oxen, graduates in the school of hard knocks and
mosquitoes, winked solemnly, switched their tails and drowsed along
unmoved.

The sailors had been doing various odd jobs around the house on
Sundays ever since they came, but had not worked openly until one
particular Sunday in May. All day they hoped that someone would
come and stop them from working, or at least beg of them to desist, but
the hot afternoon wore away, and there was no movement around any
of the houses on the plain. The guardian of the morals of the
neighborhood, Mrs. Maggie Corbett, had taken notice of them all right,
but she was a wise woman and did not use militant methods until she
had tried all others; and she believed that she had other means of
teaching the sailor twins the advantages of Sabbath observance.
About five o'clock the twins grew so uproariously hungry they were
compelled to quit their labors, but when they reached their house they
were horrified to find that a wandering dog, who also had no respect for
the Sabbath, had depleted their "grub-box," overlooking nothing but the
tea and sugar, which he had upset and spilled when he found he did not
care to eat them.
Then it was the oxen's turn to laugh, for the twins' wrath was all turned
upon each other. Everything that they had said about the oxen, it
seemed, was equally true of each other--each of them had confidently
expected the other one to lock the door.
There was nothing to do but to go across to the Black Creek Stopping-
House for supplies. Mrs. Corbett baked bread for them each week.
Reginald, with a gun on his shoulder, and rolling more than ever in his
walk, strolled into the kitchen of the Stopping-House and made known
his errand. He also asked for the loan of a neck-yoke, having broken his
in a heated argument with the "starboard" ox.
Mrs. Corbett, with a black dress and white apron on, sat, with folded
hands, in the rocking-chair. "Da" Corbett, with his "other clothes" on
and his glasses far down on his nose, sat in another rocking-chair
reading the life of General Booth. Peter Rockett, the chore boy, in a
clean pair of overalls, and with hair-oil on his hair, sat on the edge of
the wood-box twanging a Jew's-harp, and the tune that he played bore a
slight resemblance to "Pull for the Shore."

Randolph felt the Sunday atmosphere, but, nevertheless, made known
his errand.
"The bread is yours," said Mrs. Corbett, sternly; "you may have it, but I
can't bake any more for you!"
"W'y not?" asked Reginald, feeling all at once hungrier than ever.
"Of course