He pushed a tousled head of flaring red hair under the blacksmith’s nose. He struck his chest dramatically with his fist.
“Donald McTavish McGregor, that’s my name. And I’m off to take your advice, but you can keep the mare till she’s shod.”
He swaggered out.
At the door he had to side-step––much to his disgust––to get out of the way of one, Ben Todd, who was not in the habit of making way for anyone but a lady. Todd was the Editor and Manager of the Vernock and District Advertiser, the man behind most of the political moves in the Valley. He was a hunchback, with a brain that 38 always seemed to have a “hunch” before any other brain in the country started to wake up.
“Hullo, John!” shouted Todd.
“Fine day, Ben!” returned Pederstone.
“See the Government’s turned down the new Irrigation Scheme!”
“What?” shouted Pederstone. “The mean pikers!”
“Guess it’s about time we had a new Government, John!”
“Yes!––or at least a new member for the Valley,” returned the smith.