He took a few turns up and down the long porch, stopping finally at the upper end. The clear, inspiring clang of a hammer on an anvil fell suddenly upon his ears. He looked at his watch. The hour was nine, certainly an unusual time for men to be at work in a forge. He remembered the two men in the tap-room who were bare-armed and wore the shapeless leather aprons of the smithy. He had been standing there not more than half a minute peering in the direction from whence came the rhythmic bang of the anvil,--at no great distance, he was convinced,--when some one spoke suddenly at his elbow. He whirled and found himself facing the gaunt landlord. "Good Lord! You startled me," he exclaimed. He had not heard the approach of the man, nor the opening and closing of the tavern door. His gaze travelled past the tall figure of Putnam Jones and rested on that of a second man, who leaned, with legs crossed and arms folded, against the porch post directly in front of the entrance to the house, his features almost wholly concealed by the broad-brimmed slouch hat that came far down over his eyes. He too, it seemed to Barnes, had sprung from nowhere. "Fierce night," said Putnam Jones, removing the corn-cob pipe from his lips. Then, as an after thought: "Sorry I skeert you. I thought you heerd me." "I was listening to the song of the anvil," said Barnes, as the landlord moved forward and took his place beside him. "It has always possessed a singular charm for me." "Special hurry-up job," said Jones, and no more. "Shoeing?" "Yep. You'd think these hayseeds could git their horses in here durin' regular hours, wouldn't you?" "I dare say they consider their own regular hours instead of yours, Mr. Jones." "I didn't quite ketch that." "I mean that they bring their horses in after their regular day's work is done." "I see. Yes, I reckon that's the idee." After a few pulls at his pipe, the landlord inquired: "Where'd you walk from to-day?" "I slept in a farm-house last night, about fifteen miles south of this place I should say." "That'd be a little ways out of East Cobb," speculated Mr. Jones. "Five or six miles." "Goin' over into Canada?" "No. I shall turn west, I think, and strike for the Lake Champlain country." "Canadian line is only a few miles from here," said Jones. "Last summer we had a couple of crooks from Boston here, makin' a dash for the border. Didn't know it till they'd been gone a day, however. The officers were just a day behind 'em. Likely lookin' fellers, too. Last men in the world you'd take for bank robbers." "Bank robbers, as a rule, are very classy looking customers," said Barnes. Mr. Jones grunted. After a short silence, he branched off on a new line. "What you think about the war? Think it'll be over soon?" "It has been going on for nearly two years, and I can't see any signs of abatement. Looks to me like a draw. They're all tired of it." "Think the Germans are going to win?"