“Nathan Porter, I say, come out here! Let that horse alone!”
“All right, I'm a-comin'. Now, I reckon I'll have to fetch a hammer an' saw an' nails an' buy planks to make another trough, jest fer you to chaw up into powder.”
“Nathan Porter, do you hear me?”
“Well, I reckon ef I don't, they do over at Baker's,” and the farmer, bareheaded and without his coat, came from the stable.
“That blasted hoss has deliberately set to work an' chaw—”
“Nathan Porter”—the old woman thrust her slim fingers into his face—“do you see that piece of fodder?”
“Yes, I see it. Is it a sample o' last year's crop? Are you buy in' or sellin'? You mought 'a' fetched a bundle of it. A tiny scrap like—”
“I got that out o' Cynthia's hair.”
“You don't say! It must be a new sort o' ornament! I wouldn't be surprised to see a woman with a bundle of it under each arm on the front bench at meetin' after seein' them Wilson gals t'other night ready fer the dance with flour in the'r hair an' the ace o' spades pasted on the'r cheeks.”
“Cynthia and Nelson Floyd stayed all night in Long's mill,” panted Mrs. Porter. “There wasn't another soul there nor in miles of it.”