"Hit 'im! hit 'im! Jump off and knock 'im!" suggested a bystander, jovially.
Howard knew the voice.
"Talk's cheap. Takes money to buy whiskey," he said, when the man on the load repeated his threat of getting off and whipping the scales-man.
"You're William McTurg," Howard said, coming up to him.
"I am, sir," replied the soft-voiced giant, turning and looking down on the stranger, with an amused twinkle in his deep brown eyes. He stood as erect as an Indian, though his hair and beard were white.
"I'm Howard McLane."
"Ye begin t' look it," said McTurg, removing his right hand from his pocket. "How are yeh?"
"I'm first-rate. How's mother and Grant?"
"Saw 'm ploughing corn as I came down. Guess he's all right. Want a boost?"
"Well, yes. Are you down with a team?"