Douglas closed the gate, fastened it, and hastened to the barn where the teamster was awaiting him. He climbed into the loft and stowed away the hay as it was handed up to him. At times he hardly knew what he was doing, so greatly was his mind agitated. Why had he not given that fellow the sound thrashing he deserved? And yet he was thankful that he had controlled himself, as he might have spoiled all his plans had he given way to hasty action. He worked with a feverish haste all that afternoon, and talked but little. This change puzzled the teamster, and he advised him to take his time.
"It's no use killin' yerself," he told him. "Si Stubbles won't thank ye if ye work yer head off."
"I want to get through with this job," Douglas replied. "I'm not working by the day as you are, and Jake needs me."
When the last of the hay had been unloaded, Douglas left the barn and started for the road. He had not seen Ben since the encounter at the gate, and he was hoping that he would not meet him again that afternoon. He did not feel altogether sure of himself, and he needed time and quietness to think carefully over what he had better do.
He was part way down to the road when he heard some one calling. Stopping and looking back, he saw that it was Ben hurrying after him. As he approached, Douglas saw that his manner was altogether changed, and he seemed quite affable. He was dressed in a white tennis-suit, and he looked cool and self-possessed.
"Say," he began, "I understand you play the fiddle."
"Well, what of it?" Douglas curtly questioned.
"You really do, then?"
"Yes, when I feel like it."
"Won't you feel like it to-night? You see, there's to be a dance in the hall this evening, but the man who generally plays is sick."