"Surely; very glad to serve you, Neighbor Peakslow," Lord Betterson replied, in his magnificently polite way, much as if he had been a monarch dismissing a foreign ambassador.
Jack came over to Long Woods that afternoon, and, having rectified Mrs. Wiggett's noon-mark, stopped at Peakslow's raising on his way back up the valley.
He found a group of men and boys before the house, partaking of some refreshments,—sweetened whiskey and water, passed round in a pail with a tin dipper by Zeph, and "nut-cakes" and "turn-overs," served by Mrs. Peakslow and 'Lecty Ann.
The sight of Snowfoot tied to his fence made Peakslow glare; nor was his ruffled spirit smoothed when he saw Jack come forward with a cheery face and a compass in his hand.
Jack greeted the Bettersons, Mr. Wiggett, and one or two others he knew, and was talking pleasantly with them, when Peakslow pushed the inverted cut-water of his curved beak through the crowd, and confronted him.
"So that air's the compass, is it?"
"This is the compass, Mr. Peakslow."
"Keep it in yer hand, now'days, do ye? Don't trust it in the wagon? Good idee! No danger of its bein' stole, an' your comin' agin to 'cuse my boys of the theft!"
Peakslow's ancient wrath rekindled as he spoke; his voice trembled and his eyes flamed.
Jack kept his temper admirably, and answered with a frank and honest face,—