Every Hand Shall Do Its Share, Quoth Peg

The fifth day of Jinnie's stay in the cobbler's home crept out of the cold night accompanied by the worst blizzard ever known along the lake. Many times, if it had not been for the protecting overhanging hills, the wood gatherers' huts would have been swept quite away. As it was, Jinnie felt the shack tremble and sway, and doubted its ability to withstand the onslaught.

After breakfast found Lafe and Jinnie conversing interestedly in the shop. The cobbler allowed several bright nails to fall into his palm before he answered the question which was worrying the girl.

"There ain't no use troublin' about it, child," commented he. "We can't starve."

"If I could only work," said Jinnie gloomily, "I bet Peg'd soon like me, because she wouldn't have to go out in the cold at all. But you think it'd be bad for me, eh, Lafe?"

"Well, you couldn't go around to the factories or stores very well," replied Lafe. "You see your uncle's tryin' to trace you. I showed you that this mornin' in the paper, didn't I, where he mourned over you as lost after findin' your father dead?"

Jinnie nodded.

"Yes, I read it," she said.

"An' he can't get your money for seven years. That makes him madder'n a hatter, of course."

"If he'd let me alone, I'd just as soon give him the money," Jinnie said mournfully.

Lafe shook his head.

"The law wouldn't let you, till you was of age. No, sir, you'd either have to die a natural death or--another kind, an' you're a pretty husky young kid to die natural."