Baumberger droned on, mostly relating the details of
cases he had won against long odds--cases for the most part
similar to this claim-jumping business.
Nothing had been done that day, Grant gathered, beyond giving the
eight claimants due notice to leave. The boys were evidently
dissatisfied about something, though they said nothing. They
shifted their positions with pettish frequency, and threw away
cigarettes only half smoked, and scowled at dancing leaf-shadows
on the ground.
When he could no longer endure the inaction, he rose, stretched
his arms high above his head, settled his hat into place, gave
Jack a glance of meaning, and went through the kitchen to the
milk~house. He felt sure that Baumberger's ears were pricked
toward the sound of his footsteps, and he made them purposely
audible.
"Hello, Mother Hart," he called out cheerfully to Phoebe,
pottering down in the coolness. "Any cream going to waste, or
buttermilk, or cake?" He went down to her, and laid his hand upon
her shoulder with a caressing touch which brought tears into her
eyes.
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