"Suits me. 'Tain't our choice to come home," replied his son.
"We'd like nothing better than to sleep there, too," said Yan.
"Well, why don't ye? That's what I'd do if I was a boy playin' Injun;
I'd go right in an' play."
"_All right now_," drawled Sam (he always drawled in proportion
to his emphasis), "that suits us; now we're a-going sure."
"All right, bhoys," said Raften; "but mind ye the pigs an' cattle's to
be 'tended to every day."
"Is that what ye call lettin' us camp out--come home to work jest the
same?"
"No, no, William," interposed Mrs. Raften; "that's not fair. That's no
way to give them a holiday. Either do it or don't. Surely one of the
men can do the chores for a month."
"Month--I didn't say nothin' about a month."
"Well, why don't you now?"
"Whoi, a month would land us into harvest," and William had the air of
a man at bay, finding them all against him.
"I'll do Yahn's chores for a fortnight if he'll give me that thayer
pictur he drawed of the place," now came in Michel's voice from
the far end of the table--"except Sunday," he added, remembering a
standing engagement, which promised to result in something of vast
importance to him.
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