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“That’s about the size of it, I tell yuh!” he repeated. “And when they get religion, Seth, why there ain’t no good tryin’ to drill any reason into ’em!”

Mauney stood in the door leading to the former dining-room, watching McBratney’s small eyes shine with wicked animation.

“As I was tellin’ yuh,” he went on, “the woman wouldn’t let up on him, day ner night, pesterin’ the life out o’ the boy, goin’ into her room there off the kitchen an prayin’ like she was tryin’ to ward off a cyclone.”

He suddenly bent forward, so that his long hands nearly touched the floor, suggesting to Mauney an enraged orang-outang looking through the bars of his circus cage.

“An’ now that she’s got her way, what do you think?”

Bard knocked the bowl of his pipe against the edge of the stove.

“God only knows! What?” he said.

“Dave’s made up his mind to go preachin’!”

“I heard that,” admitted Bard with a sly smile. “I s’pose you’ll be proud to have a son o’ yours called of the Lord, eh?”

“Called o’ nothing!” declared McBratney, hammering the chair arm with his fist, then settling back, with much silent movement of his Adam’s apple. “I’ve tried to reason with him, but his mind is stopped workin’ or else it’s workin’ just a little bit too fast fer me. I think he’s just framin’ an excuse to leave the farm.”