The Summons

Jake Brewer paused in the lane opposite Skinner's home. The shanty was almost snowed in. A thin curl of smoke trailed up from the chimney and drifted among the leafless branches of the willow trees.

Brewer dropped a pair of dead rabbits to the deep snow at his side, and shifted the gun he held in his right hand to his left. Then, he fumbled in his overcoat pockets. Discovering what he wanted, he picked up the rabbits and walked through the path to the hut.

Tess took down the bar at his rap.

"Lot o' snow, Tessie," smiled Brewer. "Here, I brought ye some letters."

Tessibel took the two letters the fisherman handed her.

"They got yer name writ on 'em, brat," said he, knocking the snow from his boots against the clap boards. "That's how I knowed they was your'n."

A shadowy smile flitted over the squatter girl's face.

"Sure, they be fer me," she replied. She turned the letters over in her hands. "Thank ye, Jake, fer bringin' 'em.... Come in a minute, won't ye?"

"Sure, an' I air always glad to do somethin' fer ye, kid.... How's yer pa this mornin'?"

Brewer stepped into the hut, placed his gun and the rabbits in the corner, and spread his hands over the stove.

"He ain't so well today, Jake! Poor Daddy, he suffers somethin' awful with his heart, Daddy does.... It air rheumatism."

"Ever try eel skins, brat?" asked Brewer, sitting down. "My grandma wore a eel skin for rheumatiz for twenty-five years, an' Holy Moses, the sufferin' that woman had durin' 'em times my tongue ain't able to tell!"