Stevens had been something seduced from his gravity by the blunt humor and unexpected manner of Ned Hinkley; besides, having been served, if not saved, by his hands, something, perhaps, of attention was due to what he had to say; but he recollected the assumed character which he had to maintain—something doubtful, too, if he had not already impaired it in the sight and hearing of those who had come so opportunely but so unexpectedly to his relief, He recovered his composure and dignity; forbore to smile at the story which might otherwise have provoked not only smile but corresponding answer; and, by the sudden coolness of his manner, tended to confirm in Ned Hinkley's bosom the half-formed hostility which the cause of his cousin had originally taught him to feel.
“I'll lick the conceit out of him yet!” he muttered, as Stevens, turning away, ascended to the spot where William Hinkley stood.
“I owe you thanks, Mr. Hinkley,” he began.
The young man interrupted him.
“You owe me nothing, sir,” he answered hastily, and prepared to turn away.
“You have saved my life, sir.”
“I should have saved your dog's life, sir, in the same situation. I have done but an act of duty.”
“But, Mr. Hinkley—”
“Your horse is ready for you, sir,” said the young man, turning off abruptly, and darting up the sides of the hill, remote from the pathway, and burying himself in the contiguous forests.
“Strange!” exclaimed the neophyte—“this is very strange!”