It was Old Granny Williams who took down the first authentic word regarding the strange work of the man on the hilltop—she had gone up to take him something to eat.
“Hit’s Davy!” said she. “He’s done come back home! He’s a-startin’ of his collidge. He war a-layin’ the stones in rows, this way and that. He done dug a long sort of trench, like, whar the ground was level, up on top of the hill. He shore air a-goin’ to build something.”
Some scoffed at all this. Others looked up still more curiously all that day. Word passed that David Joslin had come back home to stay. The next day, at about ten in the morning, as David Joslin dropped in its place a heavy slab of sandstone, which he had carried in his hands from his quarry on the hillside, he looked up to see the cause of a shadow on the ground.
“Good morning, Absalom,” said he quietly.
Absalom Gannt said nothing at first, but laid off his coat.
“Damn me, Davy!” said he. “Hit hain’t nuvver goin’ to be said that no Joslin could do more’n a Gannt. Ye a-workin’ up here all alone!”
The grizzled old man stood for a time, hands on hips, and looked about him.
“What’s that blood on that rock yander?” he asked, pointing to a stain on the slabs at the corner.
“I mashed my hand between a couple of rocks,” said David. He held up his hand. The edge of the palm, livid and dark blue, had been bruised off in a large half-open wound, from which the blood still oozed slowly. “It’s nothing,” said he. “I swore—before I thought. It’ll be all right.”