Then he swung his scythe with a dry swish through the stems of tall timothy and a thousand purple-powdered heads bowed down before him.
Gaspard and Tom moved steadily among the stumps for about half an hour; and then Mick Otter scrambled back through the fence with the little dog panting at his heels.
“That b’ar got boots on, anyhow,” said Mick.
“Boots, d’ye say?” exclaimed Gaspard. “Boots!—an’ spyin’ ’round like a wild critter instead of walkin’ up to the house an’ namin’ his business like a Christian. I reckon I best take a look at him an’ his boots.”
He laid aside the scythe and took up his ever-handy rifle.
“You think him devil, what?” said Mick.
“Ye can’t never tell,” returned Gaspard, climbing the barrier of brush that shut the forest from the clearing.
Mick Otter and the little dog followed. Tom checked his own impulse to go rambling in the cool woods, filled and lit his pipe and returned to the mowing. He had not gone half the length of the field before Catherine came running to him, straight through the standing crop.
“Ned Tone is at the house,” she said, breathlessly; and then, “Where are the others?” she asked.
Tom told her of the morning’s excitement.