Part 16 (2/2)
”What's up here? A whole gathering of people: is it harvest-treat to-day, Zalia? Why, here's Barbara and Mite and....”
”Warten, Zeen is ill.”
”Zeen?... Ill?”
”Yes, ill, man, and we're sitting up.”
Warten opened wide eyes, flung the box which he carried over his shoulder by a leather strap to the ground and sat down on it:
”Ha! So Zeen's ill... he's not one of the youngest either.”
”Seventy-five.”
They were silent. The womenfolk drank their coffee. Warten fished out a pipe and tobacco from under his blue smock and sat looking at the rings of smoke that wound up to the ceiling.
”Well, perhaps I've come at the right time, if that's so.”
”You can help sit up.”
”Have you had your supper, Warten?”
”Yes, Zalia, at the farm.”
”And how's trade?” asked Stanse.
”Quietly, old girl.”
They heard a moaning in the other room. Barbara lit the lantern and all went to look. Warten stayed behind, smoking.
Zeen lay there, on a poverty-stricken little bed, low down near the ground, behind the loom, huddled deep on his bolster under a dirty blanket: a thin little black chap, leaning against a pillow in the dancing twilight of the lantern. His eyes were closed and his bony face half-hidden in the blue night-cap. His breath rustled; and each puff from his hoa.r.s.e throat, blowing out the thin flesh of his cheeks, escaped through a little opening on one side of his sunken lips, which each time opened and shut.
”Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!” cried Barbara.
”That's bad, that's bad,” said Stanse and shook her head.
”His eyes are shut and yet he's not asleep!”
”Zeen! Zeen!” cried Mite and she pushed him back by his forehead to make him look up. ”Zeen! Zeen! It's I: don't you know Mite?”
”Oof!” sighed Zeen; and his head dropped down again without his eyes opening.
”He's got the fever,” said Barbara. ”Just feel how his forehead's burning and he's as hot as fire.”
”Haven't you poulticed him?” asked Stanse. ”He wants poultices on his feet: mustard.”
”We haven't any mustard and it's far to the village.”
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