Musing over these things, the young fellow leaned on the rotting fence, staring vacantly at the collie dog, who, in turn stared gravely at him.
The path-master, running her tanned fingers through her curls, laid one hand on her dog’s silky head and looked up at him.
“I do wish you would work out your tax,” she said.
Before McCloud could find voice to answer, the alder thicket across the road parted and an old man shambled forth on a pair of unsteady bowed legs.
“The kid’s right,” he said, with a hoarse laugh; “git yewr pick an’ hoe, young man, an’ save them two dollars tew pay yewr pa’s bad debts!”
It was old Tansey, McCloud’s nearest neighbor, loaded down with a bundle of alder staves, wood-axe in one hand, rope in the other, supporting the heavy weight of wood on his bent back.
“Get out of that alder-patch!” said McCloud, sharply.
“Ain’t I a-gittin’?” replied Tansey, winking at the little path-master.
“And keep out after this,” added McCloud. “Those alders belong to me!”
“To yew and the blue-jays,” assented Tansey, stopping to wipe the sweat from his heavy face.