Warning Hill Read Online Free Page B

before; and nearer, much nearer, he could see the weathered cupola of his own house, rising solitary above the fields around it.
    Before they reached the bridge, however, Alfred Michael paused, still humming that same tune over and over, and turned down a narrow walk toward the river, where the houses were no longer neat. At the end of the path he came to another stop before a battered frame house with a broken chimney. There was a pile of wood beside the house, over which a lank brown-skinned man was bending. Walking past him was a dignified row of dark-colored ducks, led by a drake with a magnificent green head and neck, who exhorted his flock in a monotonous singing whisper. “Whisper, whisper,” went the drake, “whisper, whisper.” Two corpulent water spaniels sprang barking from behind a stack of eelpots.
    As the man with the ax looked up, Tommy knew who he was. It was Jim Street who sometimes appeared at the house in the gunning season, clad in high rubber boots.
    There had been a cloud about Mr. Street as long as Tommy could recollect. Mr. Street was a carpenter when he chose to work, but Tommy had heard his Aunt Sarah say that Mr. Street never chose. Mr. Street was handsome then, bright-eyed with straight dark hair—too handsome for his own good, or anybody else’s, Aunt Sarah often said; and what that girl had seen in Jim, his Aunt Sarah never could see, nor Tommy’s mother, nor anybody else. She could have married any one. She probably wished she had before she died. She must have seen that you could get nowhere by flying in the face of things. What the face of things meant, Tommy could not tell, but he sometimes could think of her flying on soft whispering wings toward those banks of clouds that looked like faces now and then, when the sun went down.
    â€œHi, Alf!” said Jim Street. “You, Spot, you, Spy, lay off that noise before I bust a lath acrost you.”
    â€œCome over to the barn, Jim,” said Alfred Michael, “I want to talk.”
    They left Tommy standing near the woodpile. For a minute or two he watched them as they stood by the door of a rickety building, whose opened door revealed lofts filled deep with hay. Mr. Street was so tall that Tommy’s father was obliged to look up at him as he talked. Mr. Street was dressed in a pair of black trousers and a blue shirt opened at the neck. Now and then he would raise his hand and scratch his head. From where Tommy stood, he could hear what they were saying in snatches carried on the wind—strange, unrelated strings of words. First it would be like the green-headed drake, who was walking slowly toward the river—whisper, whisper—and then a string of words.
    â€œWhisper, whisper,” went Jim Street; “whisper, if you say so, Alf.”
    â€œWhisper, whisper,” replied his father, flicking at a hay wisp with his stick. “Whisper—and damn the consequences.”
    He pulled some money from his pocket, for of course he was very rich, and handed it to Mr. Street.
    â€œPut the jot on Jessica’s nose,” Tommy’s father said.
    â€œWhisper,” said Mr. Street. “You don’t want to—whisper—the whole pile?”
    â€œDaddy,” called Tommy, “who is Jessica?”
    His father raised a hand to his hat, to which the wind had given an unexpected tilt.
    â€œGo down to the river, Tom,” his father said, “and watch the ducks. I’m talking business with Mr. Street, that’s not meant for little boys.”
    â€œYou bet it ain’t,” Mr. Street said. “Alf, ain’t you got no sense? Go and see Jellett. Ain’t he still after you to buy that gun shack and the acre? Hell, Alf, see him before he hears you’re strapped and shake him down. Go and see Jellett! Go and see him!”
    â€œTom, did you hear me?” his father said. “Nonsense—Joe Cooper’s let him know by this time. I’m bottoms