FROM THE LIFE
home-made, as crude as one of those "stone-boats" in which the Sullivan County farmer sledges the stones from his fields.
Matt was stooping to grope for a pair of oars in their hiding-place under the trunk of a fallen hemlock when his brother came to the wharf, saw the punt, and saw it as shiftlessness and poverty made manifest in the shape of a boat. He scowled at it. He scowled at the unfinished wharf. There was a gruesome fatality connected with the history of the wharf and he knew it, but he did not intend to refer to it—not yet. He was holding that, to lead up to it as his climax.
He began suddenly in a blustering voice: "Why don't you fix up your place? Your house 's a disgrace. No fence. No steps. Not fit to live in!"
Matt said, calmly, as if addressing the oars in his hands: "It ain't my house any more, an' you know it. Besides, I don't need a fence there. The fields are fenced an' the dog stays 'round the front door. He keeps out the cattle. I never got 'round to fixin' the porch steps. We don't need 'em, anyway."
"You get 'round to going fishing."
Matt untied the boat and put his fishing-tackle into it. "I promised the missus I'd get some perch."
Ben said, "Hell!" with the grunted disgust of intelligence balked by stupid reiteration.
Matt climbed into the boat and held it to the wharf, waiting for Ben to take his place in the stern.
"How far are you going?"
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