Mrs. Machin's disgust was so deep that she could not abide to listen to their plans. Calling Phœbe, she stalked gloomily down the orchard path, wondering audibly how long Grimstone would endure under such mismanagement.
The men, delighted by a change of work, threw themselves heartily into the building of the additional room. By evening of the next day, it was not only built but the bedsteads, the chest of drawers, and a small looking-glass had been arranged inside. However, Derek held it as only a makeshift, and determined that before the next fruit season, he would have a proper cottage where the Indians could dispose themselves decently. He was eager to meet them and see their pleasure in the new comforts he had provided.
He rose early the next morning after the shack had been completed, and, after breakfast, strolled through the orchard to take a final look at it. He thought it would look rather jolly when a spiral of blue smoke curled from the rusty stove-pipe. He opened the cupboard door and looked complacently at the gaudy new set of dishes he had bought at Brancepeth. A sound of children's voices made him start. He saw what seemed a long procession of dusky people coming up the orchard path. Four little girls danced ahead while the men and women approached slowly, laden with burdens and infants. A boy of ten came last, carrying on his back an idiot boy a couple of years younger.
The women chattered cheerfully in Indian, as they came up, and stared in a friendly, amused way at Derek and the addition to the shack.
"I s'pose you're Mr. Vale," said a tall old man coming up to Derek. "Mrs. Machin, she told us we'd find you up hereabouts. I'm Solomon Sharroe, an' all these folks is my
