“It’s a curious thing,” he said, “that people are slow to believe in things which have not come under their own observation unless they read of them in print. Now this very morning I met with an experience which may seem to you incredible.”
“Go ahead,” said Long Jim. “If you’ve got a story, tell it, and we’d be thankful to you, after the stuff we’ve been obliged to swallow from Mr Pike there.”
“If I may say so,” said the stranger, “his story was fair, but it lacked circumstance. There is an art in building up a story which perhaps my friend on the counter has missed.”
“Fire away,” said Abe, grimly. “I’m not too old to larn.”
“Thank you. Of course, you all know the long descent into Blaauw Krantz, and the sharp elbow bend in the wood near the bottom before the steep fall into the river. Of course. Well, I have been in the habit of riding out on Saturday evenings to visit a farmhouse on this side, and, as a precautionary measure, I ring the bell continuously while riding down the slope.”
Abe arrested the narrative by a gesture—“Whatjer carry a bell for?” he asked, suspiciously.
“To warn people ahead. You see,” with a slight movement of the eyelids, “I travel so fast that I am obliged to herald my approach.”
“Better carry a trumpet,” growled Abe. “Well, ring along.”
“You are doubtless aware,” continued the stranger, with a keen look at the old man, “that snakes are sensitive to the influence of music.”
“I’ve marked that circumstance,” said Abe, with a lingering on the word. “Why there’s a snake in our Chapel as beats time to the ‘Ole Hundred,’ and many a time I’ve—”