Jack Ormsby, who had not spoken heretofore, sat with a great clasp-knife in his hand whittling into thin slivers a bit of the bird’s-eye maple that lay prone on the ground as if it had no better uses in manufacture than to furnish fuel to burn lime. He suddenly said, regardless of the possible inference and with a certain surly emphasis, “I hev hearn tell ez Euphemia Sims air a-goin’ ter marry Owen Haines.”
“I don’t believe it!” cried the juggler.
Swift significant glances were exchanged among the others as he pulled himself into a sitting posture and looked with challenging controversy at Ormsby. The young mountaineer seemed surprised at this direct demonstration.
“They hev been keepin’ comp’ny cornsider’ble, ennyhow,” he persisted.
“Let bygones be bygones,” the juggler said, with his wonted easy flippancy.
Old Cobbs rejoiced in the idea of love-making in the abstract. He had not realized who was the girl whose absence apparently rendered the crowded church but a barren desert. He only apprehended that one of the disputants advanced the possibility of a future marriage which the other denied. He sided at once with conjugal bliss.
“I reckon it must be true,” he urged. “Thar ain’t nuthin’ ter be said agin it.”
“Except he’s a fool!” exclaimed the juggler, with rancor.
“Ye mean ’bout prayin’ fur the power?” asked Beck.
“A tremendous fool! He can’t preach. He hasn’t the endowment, the gift of the gab. He has no call from above or below.”