Tess of the Storm Country. Grace Miller White
of such a girl would be his vicious delight. The first thing to do would be to ply the scissors to the red curls. Ben could see that the hair was clean, each curl clinging lovingly to its mate, yet living apart—so different from the matted locks of the Tess he had always known.
"Yer Daddy got good and mad to-day," remarked Jake Brewer abruptly, the deadly silence grating upon his nerves.
"What about?" said Tess sharply.
"Dominie Graves were in the witness-box, and said as how yer pap were a wicked daddy of a wickeder gal, and the jedge made him tell as how ye was so cussed, and yer daddy's humps riz up like a cat's back wet with cold tea."
Tess waited expectantly.
"And the Dominie said as how ye twiggled yer fingers to yer nose at him," continued Jake. "Did ye?"
The pale face went to a deep crimson—she remembered the day well. The Dominie had caught her stealing berries and like all the weaker ones in a strife Tess had used her tongue bitterly—and had twiggled her fingers.
The squatters went away, leaving Tessibel with a new feeling of shame. Ben Letts went with reluctance—he dared not remain. After Skinner had gone the way of all squatters who incurred the penalties of the law, he, Ben Letts, would have the girl for weal or woe.
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