“Well, now, you just be the first to tell that to Donald,” drawled out Davy, the blacksmith, looking straight at the cringing little carpenter, “and I’ll crimp your red whiskers with the hot tongs of my forge.” Here was a friend to Donald and the missing Andy, till now unannounced. No end of gossiping by the tattler of the neighborhood had failed to prejudice the mind of the honest smith.
Angus Ferguson had already humped off from his seat upon the coal puncheon, and with his awkward strides was making rapidly toward the scared Donald, extending his hand in such an enthusiastic welcome that the poor fellow nearly mistook the demonstration for one of unfriendliness. “How de doo, Donald! I am a-goin’ to tell you I am a-comin’ over to-morrow to help ye draw in that grain over yonder by the woods. It’s been there now nigh onto two weeks in the sun.”
“Is it dry, Angus, think ye?” inquired Donald, brightening at the show of friendship. Then an awkward silence followed.
“Got a new horse, Donald,” blurted out Angus.
“Aye,” returned Donald, the broad grin covering his face.
“Want to see him?” urged Angus. Then they both started down the road like the two overgrown country lads that they were. This spontaneous act of kindness by Ferguson was prompted by his heart’s sympathy, which had been penned up for weeks, rebelling constantly against the insinuating remarks repeated by the carpenter.
Fraser nursed his displeasure alone. Angus Ferguson, the silent, had outwitted him. Davy Simpson had exposed his deceitfulness, and in a short time his supposed strength as a member of the gossip club had crumbled in a humiliating climax.
At that moment, as he was regretfully acknowledging to himself the failure he had made in gaining the confidence and respect of his associates, his attention was drawn to a familiar vehicle which had approached silently in the gathering darkness, and now stood in the roadway before the blacksmith’s shop. “Good-evening, William Fraser,” began Nicholas Perkins (for it was the polite tax gatherer, who lived near The Gore), and Fraser walked out with his meekest walk to the side of the wagon. Perkins patronized the shop over at The Gore, and like all the rest from his town, halting before Davy’s place, kept upon neutral ground, remaining in the middle of the road.
“Fraser, I am told,” continued Perkins, as he hitched himself along to the end of the wagon seat and leaned out over the wheel, to strike a confidential attitude, “that there is no news from Cameron.”
“Well, that’s about true, Mr. Perkins; no news, and they say that the mortgage time is about up, too.” A little more encouragement, and the carpenter’s sympathies were at once enlisted with the newcomer.