"There don't seem to be much they can't do 'round the mill," grunted Spectacle John, whose days were made weary routing his partner's family from his place of business. "You won't raise that oldest boy if he shows his face to me 'round the mill again, I promise you that."
"Speakin' o' mills," said William Winters, "when I was at Neeag'ra Falls I seen a mill that you could put this whole village into an' never notice it, an' it run by electricity, too."
The population of the milkstand settled more firmly into its place. When the blacksmith got started on his favorite topic there was no knowing when he might stop. He had visited the Toronto Exhibition and Niagara Falls one autumn, and ever since had lived in the afterglow of that achievement. Not the most astounding phenomena that the milkstand could produce, either in song or story, but he could far surpass from the wonderful experiences of that visit. The Niagara Falls mill was only half finished when a new arrival interrupted.
"Fine night," said a voice with a deep Scottish burr.
"Fine," acquiesced the milkstand.
"Oh, and it will be you, Sandy?" said Uncle Hughie, making room for the newcomer beside him. "Come away, man, come away."
Sandy McQuarry was a thick-set man, with a face like a Skye terrier. He stood looking down at the contented, round-shouldered assembly, with little columns of smoke curling up from pipes of peace, and his disapproving brows bristled as though he were about to burst into loud barking.
"Jeannie said ye wanted me," he remarked, by way of explaining his presence. Sandy McQuarry was a busy man, and a great money-maker, and did not want any one to think he could afford to spend his evenings in idle gossip on a milkstand, as some folks did.
"Oh, yes, indeed, it would be very kind of you to be troubling. You must jist be coming with us to see that poor McIntyre body now, down in your shanty. And what would you be thinking of him?"
"He's a dour body. Ah couldna git a ceevil word oot o' him."