"Kicked in the stummick 'til she dunno where she is," said Tunk,
gloomily.
He pulled off his boots.
"If she don't go lame t'morrer, I'll miss my guess," he added.
"She looks a good deal like Deacon Haskins after he had milked the
brindle cow."
He leaned back, one foot upon the stove-hearth. Shrill cries rang
in the old house.
"'Druther 'twould hev been a painter," said Tunk, sighing.
"Why so?"
"More used to 'em," said Tunk, sadly.
They listened a while longer without speaking.
"Ye can't drive it, ner coax it, ner scare it away, ner do nuthin'
to it," said Tunk, presently.
He rose and picked up the things Trove had brought with him. "I'll
take these to the barn," said he; "they'd have a fit--if they was
t' see 'em. What be they?"
"I do not know what they are," said Trove.
"Wal!" said Tunk. "They're queer folks--them Frenchmen. This
looks like an iron bar broke in two in the middle."
He got his lantern, picked up the bottle, the sling-shot, and the
iron, and went away to the barn.
Trove went to the bedroom door and rapped, and was admitted. He
went to work with the baby, and soon, to his joy, it lay asleep on
the bed. Then he left the room on tiptoe, and a bit weary.
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