Peter ToC
“No, Antone, I have told thee many times, no, thou shaltnot sell it until I am gone.”
“But I need money; what good is that old fiddle to thee?The very crows laugh at thee when thou art trying to play.Thy hand trembles so thou canst scarce hold the bow. Thoushalt go with me to the Blue to cut wood to-morrow. See toit thou art up early.”
“What, on the Sabbath, Antone, when it is so cold? I getso very cold, my son, let us not go to-morrow.”
“Yes, to-morrow, thou lazy old man. Do not I cut woodupon the Sabbath? Care I how cold it is? Wood thou shaltcut, and haul it too, and as for the fiddle, I tell thee I will sellit yet.” Antone pulled his ragged cap down over his lowheavy brow, and went out. The old man drew his stool upnearer the fire, and sat stroking his violin with trembling fingersand muttering, “Not while I live, not while I live.”
Five years ago they had come here, Peter Sadelack, and hiswife, and oldest son Antone, and countless smaller Sadelacks,here to the dreariest part of south-western Nebraska, and hadtaken up a homestead. Antone was the acknowledged masterof the premises, and people said he was a likely youth, andwould do well. That he was mean and untrustworthy everyone knew, but that made little difference. His corn was bettertended than any in the county, and his wheat always yieldedmore than other men’s.
Of Peter no one knew much, nor had any one a good wordto say