“And then what will you do?” asked Tom.
“Pump it to ’im! Pump it into ’im!” exclaimed the old man, heartily; and he illustrated his pleasant intention by crooking and wiggling the trigger-finger of his right hand.
Even the knowledge of the fact that the cartridges in the rifle were harmless failed to put Tom entirely at his ease.
Tom enjoyed the evenings and rainy days. Then he read or played chess with Catherine or listened to Gaspard’s stories of the past. The old man told some stirring tales of his physical prowess; and always at the conclusion of such narratives he would say, in a fallen voice, “Vanity, vanity, all sich things is vanity.”
The grass ripened for the scythe; and Tom drew Gaspard’s attention to the fact.
“Mick would feel reel put out if we started hayin’ before he got here,” said Gaspard. “He ain’t missed a hayin’ in twenty year, Mick Otter ain’t.”
“Where does he live?” asked Tom.
“Everywheres,” replied the old man. “Mostly crost the height-o’-land, I reckon. He can’t keep still fer long, that Injun. Soon as the ice busts up he’s off, runnin’ the woods till the grass is ripe. He lights out agin after harvest, an’ lives on the gun till the snow lays a foot deep over these clearin’s. He’ll be here inside the week, to mow the first swath—onless somethin’s happened to ’im.”
They took down the scythes next morning, and Tom turned the grindstone while Gaspard ground the long blades. They were intent on their task in the sunshine when a shadow fell suddenly upon the stone. Tom glanced up and saw a squat figure standing within a few feet of him. He ceased to turn the stone and straightened his back. Old Gaspard poured water from a rusty tin along the edge of the blade, tested its keenness with a thumb and said, “How do, Mick.”
“How do,” replied the old Maliseet. “You start hayin’, what?”