The stranger fell to brushing flies again.
“Well, what happened that——”
“There ye go,” the Loafer cried, ducking forward and almost tumbling from the anvil. “Keep your eye on my head an’ not on every Tom, Dick an’ Harry in the shop.” He readjusted himself on his perch and blew away a bunch of hair that had settled on his nose.
“What happened?” he inquired, fixing his least exposed eye on the man from Raccoon Valley.
“Quick ez a flash the han’le o’ my pitch-fork swole up tell it was thick ez my arm.”
The Dunkard had fixed his gaze intently on the forefeet of the mule and was beating them industriously with the horse-tail.
The smith wheeled about abruptly and gazed at the stranger.
“That was an awful thing to experience,” he said. But there was a ring of doubt in his voice.
The Loafer peered over his shoulder and ventured. “Yes. It was the worst jag yit. But I don’t mind. I’m gittin’ accustomed.”