"Well, I did," said I grumpily, not liking to be bereft of any little
glory in her eyes.

"What, you?" Her eyebrows arched and her lips curled. "You, oh, never.
'Smiting and praying'? 'The arm of the Flesh and the sword of the
Spirit.'" She mouthed the words deliciously.

"But, doubtless, when you see my Lord Brocton again, you'll put in the
Word and the praying." Here her sweet voice trailed off into a dainty
snuffle: "'My dear lord, since out of the mouths of babes and sucklings
proceedeth wisdom, hearken, I pray you, unto me, Oliver Wheatman, to wit
of the Hanyards, and amend ye your ways lest I hit you over your cockscomb
again, and very much harder than before. Repent ye, my lord, for the hour
is at hand, and if you don't, I'll thump you into one of our Kate's
blackberry jellies.' And here endeth the goodly discourse of that saintly
rib-roaster, Master Hit-him-first-and-then-pray-for-him Wheatman of the
Hanyards."

It was simply glorious to be so tormented by this witch with the dancing
blue eyes.

"For this scandalous contempt of the Muses," said I soberly, "I shall
punish you by frizzling your share of the ham to a cinder."

During my schoolboy days I had roamed the countryside till I knew it as
an open book, and this minute knowledge was our salvation now. The
immediate need was food, and food obtained without price and without our
being observed by anyone. At seven o'clock on a hard winter morning in
open country, this seemed to require a miracle. As a matter of fact, it
was as easy as shelling peas.