“To-morrow is the last day, Davy,” said Bill. “I’ll be on my way to the town in the morning. If there’s no news from Andy Cameron it won’t take you long to tell it to me when I’m passing.” Then he looked Davy straight in the eye, winked his own blue eyes a few times, drew out from his trousers pocket the plug of chewing tobacco, and was gone in an instant. Davy made no remark to the neighbor who was the onlooker at this little episode, the termination of a month of silent conferences held between these two men, sturdy types of rural loyalty.
“I thought Bill would do it,” mused the smith to himself. “He’s got the heart, and a whole lot of other things that the people round here don’t know much about. But Bill knows I know it, and that’s why he’s been a-hanging around here a-wantin’ of me to say something. But I knowed he’d say it all right,” and in his pleasure Davy hammered the nail-clinches with double energy into the hoofs of the docile mare.
Next morning, before the rays of the Autumn sun had changed the whiteness of the hoar frost, shining like a coat of silver upon the shingled roofs of the buildings, and covering with a mantel of gray the green shrubbery and grass by the roadside, the smith unlocked the door to his place, and stepped within its darkness. At the same early hour, coming along by the cheese factory, down the side hill and through the hollow, then over the plank bridge which crossed the whey-tainted creek, the innocent cause of so much contention, now past the store at the four corners, steadily there sounded in the early morning quiet the echoing thump, thump, thump of the tread of Old Bill’s cowhide boots on the hard roadbed. Davy recognized the step as it came nearer. Now it was past the wheelwright’s place—he could see his old friend in the roadway.
“He’s not a-goin’ to stop,” thought Davy, but when nearly up to the rise of ground just to the west of the shop, Bill half turned, and with his hands deep into his trousers pockets, the peak of his faded cloth cap pushed to one side, he stood half listening, half looking for a sign from Davy. Anticipating the man, the smith had in his characteristic way upon critical moments thrust his head around the side of the open door, and with a nod motioned Bill onward. There was no word from Cameron.
Later in the day, driving along the road which turned at the four corners into that which passed the smithy, was the familiar sight of Nick Perkins and his bob-tailed horse. He sat as usual upon the edge of the seat, his disengaged arm grasping the brace which formed its back. He had put on his Sunday coat, and as he passed the door of the shop Davy could see from his window by the forge the insolent smile of triumph which Perkins cast in his direction.
“When he meets Bill Blakely up there at the lawyer’s,” thought Davy, “perhaps he’ll change that smile.”
