"I'm a comin'."
Cameron walked to meet him.
"Can I help?" he enquired.
"Why, of course!" shouted Haley. "Here, Ma, here's our new hand, the
very man for you."
Mrs. Haley, who had retired to the kitchen, appeared at the door. She
was a woman past middle age, unduly stout, her face deep lined with
the fret of a multitude of cares, and hung with flabby folds of skin,
browned with the sun and wind, though it must be confessed its color was
determined more by the grease and grime than by the tan upon it. Yet,
in spite of the flabby folds of flesh, in spite of the grime and grease,
there was still a reminiscence of a one-time comeliness, all the more
pathetic by reason of its all too obvious desecration. Her voice was
harsh, her tone fretful, which indeed was hardly to be wondered at,
for the burden of her life was by no means light, and the cares of the
household, within and without, were neither few nor trivial.
For a moment or two Mrs. Haley stood in silence studying and appraising
the new man. The result did not apparently inspire her with hope.
"Come on now, Pa," she said, "stop yer foolin' and git me that wood. I
want it right now. You're keepin' me back and there's an awful lot to
do."
"But I ain't foolin', Ma. Mr. Cameron is our new hand. He'll knock yeh
off a few sticks in no time.
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