He was able in either capacity, but his great gift lay in tongue control—in his management of silence. He was what they called in that country "a one-word man." The phrase indicated that he was wont to express himself with all possible brevity. He never used more than one word if that could be made to satisfy the demands of politeness and perspicacity. Even though provocation might lift his feeling to high degrees of intensity, and well beyond the pale of Christian sentiment, he was never profuse.
His oaths would often hiss and hang fire a little, but they were in the end as brief and emphatic as the crack of a rifle. This trait of brevity was due, in some degree, to the fact that he stammered slightly, especially in moments of excitement, but more to his life in the silence of the deep woods.
Silas Strong had filled his great pack at the store and was nearing his winter home—a rude log-house in the little forest hamlet. He let the basket down from his broad back to the doorstep. His sister Cynthia, small, slim, sternfaced, black-eyed, heart and fancy free, stood looking down at him.
"Wal, what now?" she demanded, in a voice not unlike that of a pea-hen.
"T'-t'-morrer," he stammered, in a loud and cheerful tone.
"What time to-morrer?"
"D-daylight."
"I knew it," she snapped, sinking into a chair, the broom in her hands, and a woful look upon her. "You've got t' hankerin'."
Silas said nothing, but entered the house and took a drink of water. Cynthia snapped:
"If I wanted t' marry Net Roice I'd marry 'er an' not be dilly-dallyin' all my life."