“Not a word, you black-coated villain! When I think of the way my wife and children have been cheated by a sneak-thief of a minister, it puts murder in my heart, it does! I won’t talk to you, for fear I’ll forgit and take the law into my own hands. Geddap, Jenny.”
The farmer’s old mare responded to the command and a lash of the whip and jogged away, dragging the rickety old wagon in which sat the angry Hank Low alone.
The clergyman turned, with a sigh, to his companion.
“I’m afraid, Mr. Claymore,” he said, “that all is not as it should be in this matter.”
“Pooh!” returned Claymore, easily; “you mustn’t mind the howling of such a wild man. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He won’t hurt you.”
“Oh! that isn’t what I fear. I don’t like to hear a man talk like that, because it shows that he believes he has been wronged. There might be some truth in it. If so, I should be the first to make it right.”
“But there isn’t anything wrong. It was all a plain matter of business. Hank Low had a lot of land that he couldn’t do anything with. We asked him his price for it, we had a dicker with him, and he sold. What could be simpler, or fairer, than that?”
Instead of answering, the clergyman looked over the ground where they were standing.
It was a level, but rocky, spot between high hills.