To-day, however, was not one of his "settin' days." He had been up
since dawn, had eaten no breakfast, and had even been too deeply
preoccupied to fill and light the blackened pipe that dangled limply
from his lips. Yet despite all his coaxings and cajolings, the iron
pump opposite the shed door still refused to do anything but emit from
its throat a few dry, profitless gurgles that seemed forced upward from
the very caverns of the earth. Both Willie and Jan Eldredge looked
tired and disheartened, and when Zenas Henry approached stood at bay,
surrounded by a litter of wrenches, hammers, and scattered fragments of
metal.
"What's the matter with your pump?" called Zenas Henry as he strolled
toward them.
Willie turned on the intruder, a smile half humorous, half
contemptuous, flitting across his face.
"If I could answer that question, Zenas Henry, I wouldn't be standin'
here gapin' at the darn thing," was his laconic response. "It's just
took a spell, that's all there is to it. It was right enough last
night."
"There's no accountin' fur machinery," Zenas Henry remarked.
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