In evident discussion, near a log at the mill, stood a group of farmers.
Evans and True approached.
Nathan Nye, friendly and jovial, whittling a birch stick, looked up as Evans said: “How be ye all?”
“Why not give Bob’s horse a show?” he asked, a twinkle in his keen blue eyes, a smile brightening his genial face.
Horses and oxen were hitched to the limbs of trees or grazed near at hand, quite without interest in whatever was taking place. Sledges and wagons rested their shafts on the ground, seeming to wait patiently.
“Is it a pulling bee?” asked Evans, leaning against True’s side.
“Yaas, but I guess it’s abeout over, now,” drawled a lank youth, coming out of the mill with a sack of meal on his shoulder.
“Anybody but you in a hurry to be going home-along?” questioned Nye, crushingly.
The youth did not answer, but went on to his sledge.
“There’s a jug of Medford rum in the store for the owner of the horse that can get that there log on my runway this evening,” explained Miller Chase to Evans.