Blissfully ignorant, however, of railroad methods, the settlers interpreted the guarded answer as an iron promise. Forgetting Carter's part in getting them a hearing, Cummings and his fellows plumed themselves upon their diplomacy, took to themselves the credit—in which they evidenced the secret malevolence that a rural community holds against the man who rises above its intellectual level. Human imperfection is invariable through the ages. Plebeian Athens ostracised the just Aristides. Similarly, Silver Creek evidenced its petty jealousy against its best brains. "Oh, he's too damned smart!" it exclaimed, whenever Carter was mentioned for the council, school trustee, or other public office, nor paused to consider its logic.
Slowly, with heavy gaspings, the oxen stopped at the end of the furrow, and as he sat down on the plough while they rested, Carter blessed the happy chance that had caused him to "break" clear down to Morrill's boundary. Helen sat in the shade of her cabin, thus affording him delicious glimpses of a scarlet mouth, slightly pursed over her sewing, a loose curl that glowed like a golden bar amid the creamy shadows of her neck, the palpitant life of the feminine figure. Small wonder that he lingered on that turn.
"It's that warm," he hypocritically remarked, fanning himself, "those poor critters' tongues are hanging to their knees."
The girl bowed to hide her smile. "They always seem to tire at this end of the field."
"Discerning brutes," he answered, nowise nonplussed.
She broke a silence. "It is considered bad manners to stare."
"Yes?" he cheerfully inquired. "I'll make a note of that."
A few moments later she remarked, "You have a poor memory."
"Thank you for telling. In what way?"
"You were staring."