Part 13 (1/2)

”Thank you, no, Will.”

”Then I'm off.”

It was almost with a feeling of terror that Miss Mattie beheld him root up the fence.

Her idea of repairing was to put in a picket here and there where it was most needed; Red's was to knock it all flat first, and set it up in A1 condition afterward. So, in two hours' time he straightened up and snapped the sweat from his brow, beholding the slain pickets p.r.o.ne on the gra.s.s with thorough satisfaction. Yet he felt tired, for the day was already hot with a moist and soaking sea-coast heat, to which the plainsman was unaccustomed. A three-quarter-grown boy pa.s.sed by, lounging on the seat of a farm waggon.

”Hey!” hailed Red. The boy stopped and turned slowly around.

”Yes, sir,” he answered courteously enough.

”Want a job?” said Red.

”Well, I dunno,” replied the boy. He was much astonished at the appearance of his interrogator, and he was a cautious New England boy to boot.

”_You_ don't know?” retorted Red. ”Well,”

with some sarcasm, ”d'ye suppose I could find out at the post-office?”

The boy looked at Red with a twinkle in his eye, and a comical drawing of his long mouth.

”I calc'late if you cud fin' out anyweres, 'twould be there,” said he.

Red laughed. He had noticed the busy post-mistress rus.h.i.+ng out of her store to waylay anyone likely to have information on any subject, a stream of questions proceeding from her through the door.

”Say, you got anything particular to do?”

”No, sir--leastways th'ain't no hurry about it.”

”Can I buy stuff to make a fence with, around here?”

”Yes, sir--Mister Pettigrew's got all kinds of buildin' material at his store--two mile over yonder,” pointing with the whip.

”You drive over there for me, and get some--just like this here--pickets and posts and whatever you call them long pieces, and I'll make it right with you.”

”Yes, sir--how much will I get?”

”Oh, tell him to fill the waggon up with it, and I'll send back what I don't want--hustle, now, like a good boy; I want to get shut of this job; I liked it better before I begun.”

When his Mercury had speeded on the journey at a faster gait than Red would have given him credit for, the architect strode down to the blacksmith's shop. There was a larger crowd than usual around the forge, as the advent of the stranger had gotten into the wind, and the village Vulcan was a person who not only looked the whole world in the face, but no one of the maiden ladies of Fairfield could have excelled his interest in looking the whole world as much in the inside pocket as possible. The blacksmith was emphatically a gossip, as well as a hardworking, G.o.d-fearing man.

”Say, there he comes now, Mr. Tuttle!”

cried one of the loungers, and nudged the smith to look.

”Well, let him come!” retorted the smith, testily, jamming a shoe in the fire with unnecessary force; as a matter of fact, he was embarra.s.sed. The loungers huddled together for moral support, as the big cow-man loomed through the doorway.

”Good morning, friends!” said he.

”Good morning, sir!” replied the blacksmith, rubbing his hands on his ap.r.o.n. ”Nice day, sir?”