that far without anything springing. He thought maybe he'd made a very fair buy. In her end of the long bunk house Mollie Brassfield began to sing, the tune and words giving Bill a start. She sang dolefully, in an easy pitch which carried far:
Till you fetch me the feathers from a skeeter's nest.
Call home your hogs, John Long, John Long,
Call home your hogs, John Long.
Bill breathed easier. He was relieved to learn there were words to that song which a lady could sing, having heard another version that would have stood liberal expurgation before Mollie Brassfield could have given note to it in that public manner. She trailed on:
And h'ist up the kivers round your old bal' head,
Call home your hogs, John Long.
Call home your hogs, John Long, John Long,
Call home your hogs, John Long.
The two lads came running from the house, greeting Dunham with respectful eagerness, in wide contrast with their behavior that morning, when they, taking their example from their father's loud-mouthed ridicule, had made derogatory remarks in no very careful aside. Dunham took his roll from the cantle thongs and carried it into that part of the bunk house he had occupied the night before. Mollie Brassfield, pipe in her jaw, came out to see who had arrived. She squinted from her door at Dunham, sharply, not recognizing him until he spoke to her.
