The sound of the cow-bell was a constant daily irritation to Bill; he was slow to wrath, but the bell seemed to rasp on his tenderest nerve; it had a curiously exultant sound heard in the early morning—it seemed to voice Harkey's triumph. Bill's friends were astonished at the change in him. He grew dark and thunderous with wrath whenever Harkey's name was mentioned.
One day Ike's cattle broke out of the pasture into Bill's young oats, and though Ike hurried after them, it seemed to Bill he might have got them out a little quicker than he did. He said nothing then, however, but when a few days later they broke in again, he went over there in very bad humor.
"I want this thing stopped," he said.
Ike was mending the fence. He smiled in his sweet way, and said smoothly, "I'm sorry, but when they once git a taste of grain it's pretty hard to keep 'em—"
"Well, there ought to be a new fence here," said Bill. "That fence is as rotten as a pumpkin."
"I s'pose they had; yes, sir, that's so," Harkey assented quickly. "I'm ready to build my half, you know," he said, "any time—any time you are."
"Well, I'll build mine to-morrow," said Bill. "I can't have your cattle pasturing on my oats."
"All right, all right. I'll have mine done as quick as yourn."
"Well, see't you do; I don't want my grain all tramped into the ground and I ain't a-goin' to have it."
Harkey hastily gathered up his tools, saying, "Yes, yes, all right."