"
"So?" The word escaped with the peculiar rising inflection of the
Teuton. "I haf saw dot cabin veil ve come here. But I dink it vass
abandon. Und I pick dis place mitout hope off a neighbor. Id iss goot
lant. Veil, let us to der house go. Id vill rest der mule--und
Gretchen, der cow. Hah!"
He rolled a blue eye on his incongruous team, and grinned widely.
"Come," he invited; "mine vife vill be glat."
They found her a matron of thirty-odd; fresh-cheeked, round-faced like
her husband, typically German, without his accent of the Fatherland.
Hazel at once appropriated the baby. It lay peacefully in her arms,
staring wide-eyed, making soft, gurgly sounds.
"The little dear!" Hazel murmured.
"Lauer, our name iss," the man said casually, when they were seated.
"Wagstaff, mine is," Bill completed the informal introduction.
"So?" Lauer responded. "Id hass a German sount, dot name, yes."
"Four or five generations back," Bill answered. "I guess I'm as
American as they make 'em."
"I am from Bavaria," Lauer told him. "Vill you shmoke? I light mine
bibe--mit your vife's permission."
"Yes," he continued, stuffing the bowl of his pipe with a stubby
forefinger, "I am from Bavaria.
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