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“But we won’t let them–“

“Depends on how many guns the colony’s got and how much fight there’s in it. They’ll try it, anyhow, unless–“

“Unless–” repeated Robbins uneasily.

“Unless they’re scared off, unless they think it’s death for a man to tackle us.”

Robbins rubbed his hands harder; he bit his lip. A little space of silence fell between them. Off to the south, where the little town was set like an island in the darkening prairie, the lights began to twinkle; they were yellow and scattered. Even at that distance one could tell that they burned few to the house.

“I kinder wish,” said Robbins, “that he came from another town.”

“What’s the difference about the town?”

“Oh, none, I guess. But that town, it’s in Iowa, and it sent the best things we’ve ever had. One woman put in a lot of jams and jellies and tea–such tea! My wife was sick then, and I didn’t know but I’d lose her. I gave her some of that tea and some jam, and she began to pick up from that day. It was a quince jam, and made her think of home, she said. Her father was a Connecticut man, and they had an orchard with quince trees in it–I remember–” He did not finish the sentence, but he sighed as he absently ran his eye over the gaps in the harness mended with rope.

“I bet he didn’t have nothing to do with that box,” said Orr; “most like, the people sent us that were poor folks themselves, and had to pinch to make up for the things they sent us. ‘Tain’t the rich people are sorriest for poor folks. This young Wallace–his father’s the owner of a big paper, and rich besides, and he’s got this boy in training for editor; and when that first duck couldn’t do nothing out here, the old man said he’d buy in, and the young one thought it a mighty smart thing to do to come over here and turn a lot of half-starved women and children out in winter. What’s he care? What do any of these rich folks care?”

“I don’t think you’re fair, Wesley,” said Robbins. “All the rich folks aren’t mean. I know more about them than you.” He spoke with a dawning of pride in his tone, which deepened a little.

“Yes, I know you used to belong to them,” said Orr, “and I guess you were decent to the poor. But you’ll admit you didn’t have no notion how it cuts to work every muscle in you and to lay awake thinking yourself half crazy to puzzle out better ways to make money and yet to feel every year you’re a-sinking deeper in the slough! I’ve worked five years here, and ‘cepting the first year, every single year has piled interest on the mortgage. Every year we’ve had less clothes to wear and poorer stuff to eat, and it’s been mend instead of buy, and we’ve had more debts and more worries every year. I tell you, Mr. Robbins, I thought it would kill me, once, to come on the county. I’d ‘a’ said I’d starve first; but you can’t see your wife and children starve. I went in last winter, and asked for relief. I’d that old hound dog of mine with me; you knowed him. He’d been a good dog. He come with us when we come here, running under the wagon. All the children had played with him. I took him into town, and I asked every one I knowed would he have that dog for a gift; I showed off all his tricks, feeling like I was dirty mean deceiving him, for I done it so somebody would be willing to take him home and feed him and take care of him, for it’s God’s truth I hadn’t enough for him and the children too. But nobody wanted him; he was pretty old, and he wasn’t never handsome. And one store I was in, as I went out I heard a drummer that was trying to sell goods say, ‘I saw that feller at the Relief, but I notice he’s able to keep a dog. Lets the children go hungry ruther’n the dog, I guess.’ I kinder turned on him, then I turned back again, and I whistled to Sport, and I looked at him and saw how his ribs showed and his eyes was kinder sunk. He wagged his tail and yelped like he used to, seeing me look at him; and then I went straight to that drug-store Billy used to keep–Billy Harvey. He moved away last year; he was a good friend of mine. I said to him, ‘Billy, you got something that would kill a dog in a flash, so he’d never suffer or know what hurt him?’ And Billy–he understood, and he said he had. ‘You jest put it on his tongue and he’d never know what killed him.’ Billy was sorry for me. He gave it to me for nothing, and he gave me some bones and corn bread and milk; so Sport had a good dinner. And he come right up to me and looked me in the eyes, wagging his tail. His eyes was kinder dim, but they was just as loving as ever. And he was wagging his tail when he dropped. Then I went home, and the children asked me where was Sport, and little Peggy cried–oh, Lord!”