"Yes," said Coristine, "he is the Grinstun man," whereat they all laughed; and the old lady, coming in with her milking, expressed her pleasure at seeing them such good friends.
After prayers and breakfast, the pedestrians prepared to leave, much to the regret of the household.
"Where are you bound for now?" asked Mr. Hill, to which Wilkinson replied, with the air of a guide-book, "for the Beaver River." The Baby, nothing the worse of last night's wakefulness, volunteered to show them the way by a shorter and pleasanter route than the main road, and they gladly availed themselves of his services. As the party walked on, the guide said to Coristine, "I hard fayther say that you were a lawyer, is that true?" Coristine answered that he was.
"Then, sir, you ought to know something about that man Rodden; he's a bad lot."
"What makes you think so?"
"He knows all the doubtfullest and shadiest settlers about, and has long whispers with them, and gets a lot of money from them. His pocketbook is just bulging out with bank bills."
"Perhaps it is the payment of his grindstones, Rufus."
"You don't tell me that a lawyer, a clever man like you, believe in his grindstones?"
"Why not? Doesn't he make and sell them?"
"Yes; he makes them and sells them in bundles of half-a-dozen, but the buyer of a bundle only has two to show, and they're no good, haven't grit enough to sharpen a wooden spoon."