knew it was the Donovans. And Fate seemed to be of Dad's mind; for the Donovans got into "trouble," and were reported to be "doing time." That pleased Dad; but the vengeance was a little vague. He would have liked a finger in the pie himself.
Four years passed. It was after supper, and we were all husking corn in the barn. Old Anderson and young Tom Anderson and Mrs. Maloney were helping us. We were to assist them the following week. The barn was illuminated by fat-lamps, which made the spiders in the rafters uneasy and disturbed the slumbers of a few fowls that for months had insisted on roosting on the cross-beam.
Mrs. Maloney was arguing with Anderson. She was claiming to have husked two cobs to his one, when the dogs started barking savagely. Dad crawled from beneath a heap of husks and went out. The night was dark. He bade the dogs "Lie down." They barked louder. "Damn you—lie down!" he roared. They shut up. Then a voice from the darkness said:
"Is that you, Mr. Rudd?"
Dad failed to recognise it, and went to the fence where the visitor was. He remained there talking for fully half-anhour. Then he returned, and said it was young Donovan.
"Donovan! Mick Donovan?" exclaimed Anderson. And Mother and Mrs. Maloney and Joe echoed "Mick Donovan?" They were surprised.
