"Hully gee! ol' feller, look!" Maurice extracted the wand and held it up before the animal's gaze. "Oh, don't put your ears back an' grin at me. I ain't goin' to use it on you," laughed the lad. "Look! This is what I'm goin' to do with that ol' bruiser's pointer." From a trouser's pocket he extracted a jackknife. "Now horsie, jest you watch me close. The next time he makes a cut at you he's goin' to get the surprise of his life. There, see? I've cut it through. Now I'll jest rub on some of this here clay to hide the cut. There you be! If I know anythin' 'bout seasoned hickory that pointer's goin' to split into needles right in his hand. I hope they go through his ol' fist and clinch on t'other side."
Maurice gave the tired horse a feed of oats, tossed a bundle of timothy into the manger, slapped the bay flank once again and went up the path to his breakfast.
Mrs. Keeler, a swarthy woman, almost as broad as she was tall, and with an habitual cloud of gloom on her features, met him at the door. She was very deaf and spoke in the loud, querulous tone so often used by people suffering from that affliction.
"Have you seen him?" she shouted. "What you think of him, Maurice?"
Maurice drew her outside and closed the door. "Come over behind the woodpile, Ma, an' I'll tell you," he answered cautiously.
"No, tell me here."
"Can't. He might hear me."
"Then you ain't took to that new teacher, Maurice?"
"Not what you'd notice, Ma. He ain't any like Mr. Stanhope. His face—I ain't likin' it a bit. Besides, Ma, he flogs his poor horse somethin' awful."
"How do you know that?" asked the mother, eying him sharply.