So we walked down the sloping field within the hedge, and it seemed as though one of the deep mysteries of human nature was opening there before me. What strange things men set their hearts upon!
Thus, presently, we came nearly to the farther end of the hedge. Here the old man stopped and turned around, facing me.
“Do you see that valley?” he asked. “Do you see that slopin' valley up through the meadow?”
His voice rose suddenly to a sort of high-pitched violence.
“That' passel o' hounds up there,” he said, “want to build a road down my valley.”
He drew his breath fiercely.
“They want to build a road through my land. They want to ruin my farm—they want to cut down my hedge. I'll fight 'em. I'll fight 'em. I'll show 'em yet!”
It was appalling. His face grew purple, his eyes narrowed to pin points and grew red and angry—like the eyes of an infuriated boar. His hands shook. Suddenly he turned upon me, poising his stick in his hand, and said violently.
“And who are you? Who are you? Are you one of these surveyor fellows?”
“My name,” I answered as quietly as I could, “is Grayson. I live on the old Mather farm. I am not in the least interested in any of your road troubles.”