"Well, he's just sure to make a fuss," said Jack, "he's so afraid he
won't get his share."
Bill chewed on a straw and looked at Sarah abstractedly.
"Well, what's t' be done?" inquired Mrs. Gray, after a pause.
"Can't do much till Emmy gets here," said Sarah.
"Oh, I guess we can. Bill, you put out y'r team, we won't get away 'fore
dinner."
The men drove off to the barn, leaving the women to pick their way on
chips and strips of board laid in the mud, to the safety of the
chip-pile, and thence to the kitchen, which was desolately littered with
utensils.
Deacon assumed command with the same alertness, and with the same sunny
gleam in his eye, with which he directed the funeral a few days before.
"Now, Bill, put out your team and help Jack and me pen them hogs. Women
folks 'll git things ready here."
Emma came at last, driven by Harkey's brother and his hired man. They
were both brawny fellows, rude and irritable, and the Deacon lifted his
eyebrows and whistled when he saw them drive in with a lumber wagon.
The women swarmed out to greet Emma, who was a thin, irritable, feeble
woman.
"Better late than never. Where's Ike?" inquired Mrs. Gray.
"Well, he--couldn't git away very well--he's got t' clean up some
seed-oats," she answered nervously. After the men drove off, however,
she added: "He thought he hadn't ought to come; he didn't want to cause
no aidgewise feelin's, so he thought he hadn't better come--he'd just
leave it to you, Deacon."
The Deacon said, "All right, all right! We'll fix it up!" but he didn't
feel so sure of it after that, though he set to work bravely.
The sun, growing warmer, fell with pleasant gleam around the kitchen
door and around the chip-pile where the hens were burrowing. The men
worked in their shirt-sleeves.
"Well, now, we'll share the furniture an' stuff next," said the Deacon,
looking around upon his little interested semicircle of spectators.
"Now, put Emmy's things over there and Serry's things over here. I'll
call 'em off, and, if they's no objection, you girls can pass 'em over."