stretching its beak for a worm, it was carried off with an air of censuring triumph. Mrs. Duke suspended her own replenishment to watch him, following each dipping and lifting of the spoon with a movement of the eyes and head, very much as a dog watches the transference of every morsel his master raises from the dish.
Mrs. Duke was so engaged by this exposition of deportment as to forget her own standard mixture until Peck had dipped the last grain of corn from his dish. She drew a long breath, apparently as much relieved as if she had watched her guest through some danger into which his ignorance had enticed him. She did not comment on Peck's performance, although it was plain she had been impressed by it, probably not altogether in the way he had intended.
Peck dabbed his napkin to his moustache in a truly dainty and high-bred way, looking around the silent table with the triumphant, greedy expression of a cat that has just finished a bird. It was plain that some vindictiveness had attended this lesson in table manners, which Peck was not wholly able to conceal.
"I met that little wool buyer from Boston down at Jasper," Tippie said, speaking above his operations on a large piece of ham which he was cutting into bites before beginning to eat, pushing the severed pieces out of the way to the farther side of his plate.
"Mr. Murray?" inquired Mrs. Duke.
"No, not Murray. Feller that bought your wool three years ago."
"You don't mean Mr. Fairweather, Elmer?"
"Yes, Fairweather. Couldn't think of it. Nearest I could come was Blizzard."
