CHAPTER V.
The Awfullest Thing.
The Chronic Loafer sat upon the anvil. A leather apron was tied about his neck, and behind him stood the Blacksmith, nipping at his great shock of hair with a tiny pair of scissors. He was facing the Tinsmith and the Miller, who had climbed up on the carpenter bench, and by twisting his neck at the risk of his balance, he could see the tall, thin man standing by the mule which the helper was shoeing. The stranger had hair that reached to his shoulders, a clean-shaven upper lip, a long beard and a benign aspect that denoted him a Dunkard. He had been telling a few stories of the recent events in Raccoon Valley, whence he hailed.
“So it ain’t sech a slow-goin’, out-o’-the-way placet ez you unsez think—still,” he said.
The Blacksmith thoughtfully turned to address him.
“Well, stranger——”
“Ow—ow!” cried the Loafer. “Is you a barber or a butcher?”
“Sights!” exclaimed the worthy smith. “Now that was a jag I give ye, wasn’t it?”
He resumed his task with redoubled vigor. The Loafer closed his eyes and commenced to sputter.
“Mighty souls! Go easy. Are you tryin’ to choke me?”