The latter, detained at the house by Mother Fairthorn and Sally,—both of whom looked upon him as one arisen from the dead,—did not reach the field until the others had selected their rows, overturned the shocks, and were seated in a rustling line, in the moonlight.
“Gilbert!” shouted Mark, “come here! I've kep' the row next to mine, for you! And I want to get a grip o' your hand, my bold boy!”
He sprang up, flinging an armful of stalks behind him, and with difficulty restrained an impulse to clasp Gilbert to his broad breast. It was not the custom of the neighborhood; the noblest masculine friendship would have been described by the people in no other terms than “They are very thick,” and men who loved each other were accustomed to be satisfied with the knowledge. The strong moonlight revealed to Gilbert Potter the honest heart which looked out of Mark's blue eyes, as the latter held his hand like a vice, and said,—
“I've heard all about it.”
“More than there was occasion for, very likely,” Gilbert replied. “I'll tell you my story some day, Mark; but tonight we must work and not talk.”
“All right, Gilbert. I say, though, I've got the money you wanted; we'll fix the matter after supper.”
The rustling of the corn-stalks recommenced, and the tented lines of shocks slowly fell as the huskers worked their way over the brow of the hill, whence the ground sloped down into a broad belt of shade, cast by the woods in the bottom. Two or three dogs which had accompanied their masters coursed about the field, or darted into the woods in search of an opossum-trail. Joe and Jake Fairthorn would gladly have followed them, but were afraid of venturing into the mysterious gloom; so they amused themselves with putting on the coats which the men had thrown aside, and gravely marched up and down the line, commending the rapid and threatening the tardy workers.
Erelong, the silence was broken by many a shout of exultation or banter, many a merry sound of jest or fun, as the back of the night's task was fairly broken. One husker mimicked the hoot of an owl in the thickets below; another sang a melody popular at the time, the refrain of which was,—
“Be it late or early, be it late or soon,
It's I will enjoy the sweet rose in June!”
“Sing out, boys!” shouted Mark, “so the girls can hear you! It's time they were comin' to look after us.”