lace of punishment of the wicked
dead. The sincere passion of his tones not only arrested my steps but
lured through the open doorway the languorous and yawning Buck Devine,
who hung over the worker with disrespectful attention. I joined the pair.
To Buck's query, voiced in a key of feigned mirth, Sandy said with simple
dignity that it was going to be a darned good sweater for the boys in the
trenches. Mr. Devine offered to bet his head that it wasn't going to be
anything at all--at least nothing any one would want round a trench. Mr.
Sawtelle ignored the wager and asked me if I knew how to do this here,
now, casting off. I did not.

"I better sneak round and ask the Chink," said Sandy. "He's the star
knitter on the place."

We walked on together, seemingly deaf to certain laboured pleasantries of
Mr. Devine concerning a red-headed cow-puncher that had got rejected for
fighting because his feet was flat and would now most likely get rejected
for knitting because his head was flat. By way of covering the hearty
laughter of Mr. Devine at his own wit I asked why Sandy should not
consult his employer rather than her cook.

With his ball of brown wool, his needles and his work carried tenderly
before him Sandy explained, with some embarrassment as it seemed, that
the madam was a good knitter, all right, all right, but she was an awful
bitter-spoken lady when any little thing about the place didn't go just
right, making a mountain out of a mole hill, and crying over spilt milk,
and always coming back to the same old subject, and so forth, till you'd
think she couldn't talk about anything else, and had one foot in the
poorhouse, and couldn't take a joke, and all like that. I could believe
it or not, but that was the simple facts of the matter when all was said
and done. And the Chink was only too glad to show off how smart he was
with a pair of needles.

This not only explained nothing but suggested that there might indeed be
something to explain. And it was Sandy's employer after all who resolved
his woolen difficulty. She called to him as he would have left me for the
path to the kitchen door:

"You bring that right here!"

It was the tone of one born to command, and once was enough. Sandy
brought it right there, though going rather too much like a martyr to
the stake, I thought; for surely it was not shameful that he should prove
inept in the new craft.

Nor was there aught but genial kindness in the lady's receptio