“We will take your vote if you want to swear it in,” he said, in a pacific tone, and though there were some dissenting cries from the crowd without, he read the oath, and Hurley mumbled it after him.
Then, with some difficulty, he sorted out from his pocket some torn and mud-stained packets of tickets, picked the cleanest out from each, and voted them—all with a fine air of unconcern.
Abner Beech marched out behind him now with a resolute clutch on the stake. The crowd made reluctant way for them, not without a good many truculent remarks, but with no offer of actual violence. Some of the more boisterous ones, led by Roselle Upman, were for following them, and renewing the encounter beyond the Corners. But this, too, came to nothing, and when I at last ventured to cross the road and join Abner and Hurley, even the cries of “Copperhead” had died away.
The sun had come out, and the frosty ruts had softened to stickiness. The men’s heavy boots picked up whole sections of plastic earth as they walked in the middle of the road up the hill.
“What’s the matter with your mouth?” asked Abner at last, casting a sidelong glance at his companion. “It’s be’n a-bleedin’.”
Hurley passed an investigating hand carefully over the lower part of his face, looked at his reddened fingers, and laughed aloud. “I’d a fine grand bite at the ear of one of them,” he said, in explanation. “‘Tis no blood o’ mine.” Abner knitted his brows. “That ain’t the way we fight in this country,” he said, in tones of displeasure. “Bitin’ men’s ears ain’t no civilized way of behavin’.”
“’Twas not much of a day for civilization,” remarked Hurley, lightly; and there was no further conversation on our homeward tramp.