He gave the woman the egg in his tin cup, and while she ate he put his trot-lines outside on the small forward deck so the boy might get in no more trouble with the hooks. Then he removed the shells from his shotgun, put the remaining eggs and bread and butter and chicken in his tin box, and pinned his coat collar.
“I’m going up to the place I arranged to sleep at, now,” he said, “and I hope you’ll find everything comfortable and nice. There’s more wood there by the stove, and before I come in in the morning I’ll knock on the door, so I guess maybe you’d better take off as many of them wet clothes as you wish to. You’ll take a worse cold if you don’t.”
“I’m afraid I’m too weak,” said the woman. “If you will just give me some help with my dress – ”
But Peter fled. He was a strange mixture, was Peter, and he fled as a blushing boy would have fled, not to stop running until he was far up the railway track. Then he realized, by the chill of the sleety rain against his head where the hair was thinnest, that he had forgotten his hat, and he laughed at himself.
“Pshaw, I guess that woman scared me,” he said.
He did not follow the path to Mrs. Potter’s kitchen door this time, but skirted the orchard and climbed a rail fence into the cow pasture. He made a wide circle through the pasture and climbed another fence into the yard behind the barn, where a haystack stood. He was trembling with cold by this time, and wet through, and the water froze stiff in his coat cuffs, but he dug deep into the base of the haystack and crawled into its shelter, drawing the sweet hay close around him. For awhile he lay with chattering teeth, his knees close under his chin, and then he felt warmer, and straightened his knees. The next moment he was asleep.
IV. THE SCARLET WOMAN
WHEN Peter crawled out of his haystack the next morning the weather was intensely cold and the wind was gone. Every twig and weed sparkled with the ice frozen upon it. He had needed no alarm-clock to awaken him, for an uneasy sense of discomfort gradually opened his eyes, and he found his knees aching and his whole body chilled and stiff. He climbed the fence into the farm-house yard. He had no doubt now that he was hungry, and he was well aware that his head was cold where the hair was thin. Indeed, his hands and feet were cold too. But he tightened his belt another hole and made for Mrs. Potter’s woodshed. Among the chips and sawdust he found a piece of white cloth which, had he known it was the remains of one of Mrs. Potter’s petticoats, he would have left where it lay, but not knowing this he made a makeshift turban by knotting the corners, and drew it well down over his ears, like a nightcap. It was more comfortable than the raw morning air, and Peter had no more pride than a tramp.
He found the wood saw hanging in the shed, a piece of bacon-rind on the windowsill, and the ice-covered sawbuck in the yard, and he set to work on the pile of pin-oak as if he meant to earn his clock, his breakfast and a full day’s wages before Mrs. Potter got out of bed. The exercise warmed him, but he kept one eye on the top of Mrs. Potter’s kitchen chimney, looking for the thin smoke signal telling that breakfast was under way. The pile of stove-wood grew and grew under his saw but still the house gave no sign of life. The sun climbed, making the icy coating of trees and fences glow with color, and still Mrs. Potter’s kitchen chimney remained hopelessly smokeless.
“That woman must have a good, clear conscience or she couldn’t sleep like that,” said the hungry Peter, “but I’ve got folks on my hands, and I’ve got to see to them. If this ain’t enough wood to satisfy her I’ll saw some more when I come back.”
He was worried, for no smoke was coming from the stovepipe that protruded from the roof of his shanty-boat. When he reached the boat he knocked three times without answer before he opened the door cautiously and peered in, ready to retreat should his entrance be inopportune. The woman was lying where he had left her, still in her wet clothes, and the cabin was icy cold. The boy, when Peter opened the door, was standing on the table trying to lift the shot-gun from its pegs. His face showed he had made a trip to the bread and jam. He looked down at Peter as the door opened.
“Mama’s funny,” he said, and reached for the gun again.
The woman was indeed “funny.” She was in the grip of a raging fever. Her cheeks were violently red and against them the green dye from her hat made hideous streaks. Her hair had fallen and lay in a tangle over the pillow, with the rain-soaked hat still clinging to a strand. As she moved her head the hat moved with it, giving her a drunken, disreputable appearance. She talked rapidly and angrily, repeating the names of men, of “Susie” and “Buddy,” stopping to sing a verse of a popular song, breaking into profanity and laughing loudly. All human emotions except tears flowed from her, and Peter stood with his back against the door, uncertain what to do. The table, tipping suddenly and throwing the boy to the floor, decided him.
“There, now, you little rascal!” he said, gathering the weeping boy in his arms.
“You might have broke your arm, or your leg. You oughtn’t to stand on a table you ain’t acquainted with, that way.”
“I wanted to fall down,” said the boy, ceasing his tears at once. “I like to fall off tables I ain’t ‘quainted with.”
“Well, I just bet you do!” said Peter. “You look like that sort of a boy to me. Does your ma act funny like this often? You poor young ‘un, I hope not!”
“No,” said Buddy.
Peter looked at the woman, studying her. It might have been possible that she was insane, but the vivid red of her cheeks convinced him she was delirious with fever. Her hat, askew over one ear, gave Peter a feeling of shame for her, and he put Buddy down and walked to the bunk. He saw that the hat pin had made a cruel scratch along her cheek.
“Now, ma’am,” he said, “I’m just going to help you off with this hat, because it’s getting all mashed up, and it ain’t needed in the house.”
He put out his hand to take the hat, but the woman raised herself on one arm, and with the other fist struck Peter full in the face, so that he staggered back against the table, while she swore at him viciously.
“You hadn’t ought to do that,” he said reprovingly; “I wasn’t going to hurt you.”
“I know you!” shouted the woman in a rage. “I know you! You can’t come any of that over me! You took Susie, you beast, but you don’t get Buddy. Let me get at you!”
She tried to clamber from the bunk, but fell back coughing.
“Now, you are absolutely wrong, ma’am,” said Peter earnestly. “You’ve got me placed entirely wrong. I ain’t the man you think I am at all. I’m the man that got something for Buddy to eat last night. You recall that, don’t you?”
The woman looked at him craftily.
“Where’s Buddy?” she asked.
“I’m – I’m cooking eggs, Mama,” said Buddy promptly, and Peter turned.
“Well, you little rascal!” cried Peter. “You must be hungry.”
The boy had put the frying-pan on the floor while Peter’s back was turned, and had broken the remaining eggs in it. Much of the omelet had missed the pan, decorating Buddy’s clothes and the floor. The woman seemed satisfied when she heard the boy’s voice, and closed her eyes, and Peter took the opportunity to kindle the fire and start the breakfast. He cooked the omelet, the condition of the eggs suggesting that as the only method of preparing them. The woman opened her eyes as the pleasant odor filled the cabin, and followed every movement Peter made.
“I know you! You’ll run me out of town, will you?” she cried suddenly. “All right, I’ll go! I’ll go! That’s what I get for being decent. You know I ‘ve been decent since you took Susie away from me, and that’s what I get. Run me out – what do I care! I’ll go.”
She put her feet to the floor, but another coughing