CHAPTER IX

Sunday morning Saxon was beforehand in getting ready, and on her
return to the kitchen from her second journey to peep through the
front windows, Sarah began her customary attack.

"It's a shame an' a disgrace the way some people can afford silk
stockings," she began. "Look at me, a-toilin' and a-stewin' day
an' night, and I never get silk stockings--nor shoes, three pairs
of them all at one time. But there's a just God in heaven, and
there'll be some mighty big surprises for some when the end comes
and folks get passed out what's comin' to them."

Tom, smoking his pipe and cuddling his youngest-born on his
knees, dropped an eyelid surreptitiously on his cheek in token
that Sarah was in a tantrum. Saxon devoted herself to tying a
ribbon in the hair of one of the little girls. Sarah lumbered
heavily about the kitchen, washing and putting away the breakfast
dishes. She straightened her back from the sink with a groan and
glared at Saxon with fresh hostility.

"You ain't sayin' anything, eh? An' why don't you? Because I
guess you still got some natural shame in you a-runnin' with a
prizefighter. Oh, I've heard about your goings-on with Bill
Roberts. A nice specimen he is. But just you wait till Charley
Long gets his hands on him, that's all."