“Well, it’s very bad, isn’t it, Fraser? They have been left to go to the poorhouse. We didn’t think that of Cameron over at The Gore, but, then, the expense will fall on your town, on The Front, of course,” said Perkins, turning to get the full effect of his wise remark upon Fraser.
The two deceitful maligners were unconscious of the presence of a figure which had come stealthily upon them in the darkness, and standing in the shadow of the vehicle, was now listening to the conversation.
“Well, you ought to know, Mr. Perkins,” replied the carpenter in a patronizing tone. “You will probably have the say in what will have to be done,”—but before he could finish his remark, he had leaped into the air, precipitated upon the toe of a heavy boot.
“‘Now, Nick Perkins, if you have
got anything to say to me personally, just come down here in the road
and I’ll talk to you.’”
“Oh, he will have the say about whom they take to the county farm, will he!” and Bill Blakely danced in a howling rage around the wagon of his hated foe. “You hypocrite! You prowling tax-gatherer! You hunter of the weak and homeless!” he yelled, and half climbing into the wagon, he shook his fist in the face of the surprised tax collector, shouting right into his ear, “Not while Bill Blakely lives and Andy Cameron is away from The Front will you ever hitch your ring-boned and spavined outfit to a post before the home of a Cameron on The Front! Now, Nick Perkins, if you have got anything to say to me personally, just come down here in the road and I’ll talk to you.” Bill was rolling up his gingham shirt sleeves and again dancing around bear fashion, while the discomfiture of the astonished Perkins was being hugely enjoyed by the group, now enlarged by the return of Angus Ferguson and Laughing Donald. Davy Simpson stood in the door of his shop watching the proceedings over the rims of his spectacles.
“Oh, you ain’t a-comin’ down, be you! Well, I didn’t expect you,” retorted Bill. “Your kind fight the women only. You’re sneaking around now to see if they ain’t a-gettin’ hungry, some on ’em over here. But we’ll fool you, Perkins. Laughing Donald is a better man dead than anything you can produce alive in your hull county at The Gore. And Andy Cameron won’t let the wind blow a whiff of ye to the lee side of his place when he comes back, neither. And that won’t be long from now,” and old Bill threw his quid of tobacco after the retreating wheels of the vehicle as Perkins drove away amid the jeering laughter of the group.
As soon as the tax gatherer was out of hearing distance, Bill turned to Donald, and in a tone serious for him, said, “Donald, I am a-speakin’ fer you. The Camerons are from The Front. Your brother Andy is a good man; he is a friend of mine. He will be back soon, for that I am telling ye. William Fraser, the carpenter, he’s been telling ye what ‘they say.’ Tell yer wife, Donald, when ye go home, what I say, what Davy says, and what Angus’ wife says for him to say, and don’t you worry about the mortgage.” Then Bill went over to the shop door, and they thought he was going to confide something to Davy, but he hesitated, finally bit off an enormous quid of tobacco and sauntered slowly down the road homeward.
Donald climbed the little hill by the shop, going away happier than he had been in months. Angus Ferguson still stood in the road watching him; then, looking behind him and catching sight of the carpenter closing the door to the wheelwright shop, he turned his face to the open meadow at the opposite side of the road, and slamming his straw hat down upon his head, struck into his rapid circular gait down the road, past the cheese factory toward his home.