and sittin' on him." "Prob'ly bilin suthin to heave on us: stand clear
the door, boys!" For just then the latch clicked, the door slowly
opened, and a voice said, "Come in out o' the wet."

The voice was neither that of the Old Man nor of his wife. It was the
voice of a small boy, its weak treble broken by that preternatural
hoarseness which only vagabondage and the habit of premature
self-assertion can give. It was the face of a small boy that looked up
at theirs,--a face that might have been pretty and even refined but
that it was darkened by evil knowledge from within, and dirt and hard
experience from without. He had a blanket around his shoulders and had
evidently just risen from his bed. "Come in," he repeated, "and don't
make no noise. The Old Man's in there talking to mar," he continued,
pointing to an adjacent room which seemed to be a kitchen, from which
the Old Man's voice came in deprecating accents. "Let me be," he added,
querulously, to Dick Bullen, who had caught him up, blanket and all, and
was affecting to toss him into the fire, "let go o' me, you d----d old
fool, d'ye hear?"

Thus adjured, Dick Bullen lowered Johnny to the ground with a smothered
laugh, while the men, entering quietly, ranged themselves around a long
table of rough boards which occupied the centre of the room. Johnny then
gravely proceeded to a cupboard and brought out several articles which
he deposited on the table. "Thar's whiskey. And crackers. And red
herons. And cheese." He took a bite of the latter on his way to the
table. "And sugar." He scooped up a mouthful en route with a small and
very dirty hand. "And terbacker. Thar's dried appils too on the shelf,
but I don't admire 'em. Appils is swellin'. Thar," he concluded, "now
wade in, and don't be afeard. I don't mind the old woman. She don't
b'long to ME. S'long."