“Why, I went and looked at him, and I says, ‘Oh, ay, I know what’s the meaning o’ flick-a-moroo,’ says I—‘and so do ye, I’m thinking.’”
David felt a joy in this daft enterprise as keen as Billy’s. Was it not the expression of feelings which he had himself only checked with an effort up yonder in the mistal-yard?
“’Twas outrageous, and not like ye, Billy,” the smith observed, his whole face twinkling. “Should’st be more civil when strangers come to Garth.”
Billy looked apprehensive for a moment; of all things, after work, he hated the reproof of those whom, in his innocence, he fancied to be wiser than himself. A glance at David’s face, however, reassured him.
“Civil when strangers are civil, David,” he chuckled. For Billy, vague as his outlook upon morals was, showed himself persistently on the side of the Old Testament. “I’d bested him, ye see! Owned he didn’t know what flick-a-moroo meant. Billy the Fool did.”
“We’ll have a change of play, Billy,” said the smith. “Just make the bonnie sparks go scummering up again, and I’ll to my work o’ making horseshoes.”
David stole many a look at the other’s face as they went forward with their labour. He was realizing that there were possibilities of tragedy about this lad with the big frame and the dangerous strength. It was a jest to drop a man gently into a bed of nettles—but what if Billy’s passion were roused in earnest? What if some one pierced through that slothful outer crust of his, and touched some deeper instinct in him?
“Might be a sort of earthquake hidden in poor Billy,” he muttered. “’Tis hard to guess what he’s thinking of, right at the beating heart of the chap.”
The smith would have been astonished, had he been able to sound these heart-beats of his comrade’s. It was Priscilla he was thinking of—Priscilla of the Good Intent—Priscilla, who brought the sunshine into Garth for one poor fool whenever she crossed his path.
“She’ll be fettling up the house-place now, I reckon,” said Billy suddenly.