TOM GROGAN
Suddenly Jennie's cheek flushed as she came out on the porch. Carl was coming up the path. The young Swede was bareheaded, the short blond curls glistening in the light; his throat was bare too, so that one could see the big muscles in his neck. Jennie always liked him with his throat bare; it reminded her of a hero she had once seen in a play, who stormed a fort and rescued all the starving women.
“Da brown horse seek; batta come to stabble an' see him,” Carl said, going direct to the porch, where he stood in front of Tom, resting one hand on his hip, his eyes never wandering from her face. He knew where Jennie was, but he never looked.
“What's the matter with him?” asked Tom, her thoughts far away at the moment.
“I don' know; he no eat da oats en da box.”
“Will he drink?” said Tom, awakening to the importance of the information.
“Yas; 'mos' two buckets.”
“It's fever he's got,” she said, turning to Pop. “I thought that yisterday noon when I sees him a-workin'. All right, Carl; I'll be down before I go to the board meetin'. An'
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