"Yes, I know. But your health, boy, you must think of that."
Dave laughed boisterously, an unusual thing with him. But his mood was light. He felt that he wanted to laugh at anything. What did anything matter? By this time a dozen or so of the "ninety-footers" were already in the process of mutilation by his voracious saws.
"Health, ma?" he cried. "Look at me. I don't guess I'm pretty, but I can do the work of any French-Canadian horse in my yards."
The old woman shook her silvery head doubtfully.
"Well, well, you know best," she said, "only I don't want you to get ill."
Dave laughed again. Then happening to glance out of the window he saw the figure of Joe Hardwig, the blacksmith, turning in at the gate.
"Another plate, ma," he said hastily. "There's Hardwig coming along."
His mother summoned her "hired" girl, and by the time Hardwig's knock came at the door a place was set for him. Dave rose from the table.
"Come right in, Joe," he said cheerily. "We're just having grub. Ma's got some bully stew. Sit down and join us."
But Joe Hardwig declined, with many protestations. He was a broad, squat little man, whose trade was in his very manner, in the strength of his face, and in the masses of muscle which his clothes could not conceal.