THE STEADFAST HEART
and arteries—for on that side the studding, which was to have been covered by the lath and plaster of the dining-room wall, had never been covered by anything at all.
It was a deserted house, unoccupied for years. Its shingles curled their edges upward, so that they had rather the appearance of the dirty feathers of some squatting, slovenly bird; its windows, such of them as were not stuffed with sacking and paper, had not been washed for a decade, and weeds and daisies and a rank tangle of summer growth extended from what had once been a picket fence to the very door…. Smoke was curling up in a negligent, shiftless way from the chimney.
Scarcely had the salt pork commenced to frizzle in the greasy spider when Titus Burke kicked open the rickety door and slouched into the room. He flung his black felt hat in a corner—and a little cloud of dust arose from it, spread and settled again, to add just that much to the accumulated filth of the place. He glanced at the stove, sniffed the odor of frying pork, and scowled.
“Sow-belly! Hain’t had nothin’ fit to put into a man’s stummick for a week.” Then with bleary humor, “Say, what’s matter? Hain’t none of the neighbors got chickens?”
Evidently Titus expected no reply from his
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