The newcomer had removed his hat, and was standing bareheaded in the sunshine. The black hair was worn short and stood up stiff as a pig's bristles; his narrow eyes were half hidden under the thick eyebrows, but were shifty, like a ferret's; his long nose came down over his thin colorless lips. Another curious thing that would strike an observer at first glance was the man's underpinning; his legs were strong and powerfully muscled, entirely out of keeping with the lean shoulders and narrow chest.
"Mr. Frothingham, I would have a word with you," he began.
"Well, speak out," returned Uncle Nathan. "I have no secrets with you from these gentlemen."
The overseer shifted uneasily. "There's something going on yonder across the hill," he said. "Some mischief, I take it, on the ridge shaft, for they have posted guards up there with rifles."
"I've told our people not to trespass," said Uncle Nathan. "Is that all?"
"No, sir; they have been casting cannon. I saw them at the foundry."
The three gentlemen on the porch looked at one another and then back at the overseer.
"There's no market for iron in that shape," said Nathaniel Frothingham, quietly. "Some people say that Hewes is mad; it must be true. If that is all, Cloud, you can go."
The man, without replying, turned about the corner of the house.
"For some reason he hates Mason Hewes even worse than I do," remarked Uncle Nathan. "But he is a good man-driver, and works the people well."