He stood idly gazing down these vistas of memory grimly enough for a moment; then, turning back to the still, "I'll make a try ter save the property this time, so when the storm blows over we kin git started agin another way an' another day. I'll fix it so ez when Lar'bee tells, his words will be cast back in his teeth fit ter knock 'em all down his own throat. He'll be sorry enough, sure's ye air born. They'll be hard swallowin'." The natural fortitude of Taft's character, the elastic quality of his strength, his big, bluff mental methods, combined to support him in this ordeal to a degree which contrasted advantageously with the weak, almost supine grief that Copley manifested. Perhaps, too, Taft's dinner was a material element which gave cohesion and decision to his mental resolves. Now, Copley, half starved, nervous, wild with anxiety, dread for the future, regret for the past, doubt of the present, would angrily protest, even while he aided in dismantling the apparatus; and then, after a word or two of argument, would admit its necessity, its urgency, and again lament it as futile. He almost wept when the object of his solicitude, which he had served as if it were a fetich, was finally dismembered, and he found only a partial consolation in being himself permitted to pack it, secure from injury, in boxes which Taft brought down from the store. This scanty satisfaction was short-lived, for, despite his objection, Taft poured out upon the ground the liquor which remained after the shipment of the two barrels to the cross-roads. The tubs were cut into pieces in true "revenuer" fashion, the mash was poured out, the furnace was demolished out of all semblance to its former proportions and uses, before Taft began to lay the train to blow the place up, and thus effectually silence its testimony forever. "S'pos'n'--s'pos'n'"--Copley shivered--"s'pos'n' somebody war in the Lost Time mine down thar"-- Taft paused, with a lot of tow in his hands which he was arranging for a fuse; he glanced around, the lantern swinging on his arm, as if waiting for the sequel to the unfinished sentence; then, as Copley remained vaguely staring as if at a vision of possible laborers in the Lost Time mine, "Skeer 'em powerful, I reckon," he said casually, and bent once more to his work. "But--but"--Copley recommenced, in a tone so urgent that Taft once more desisted to listen, with an inquiring look on his half-turned face--"but--but--s'pos'n' the--a--'splosion o' the powder war--war ter bring down the rocks an' the timbers in some o' them tunnels an' open shafts, an' somebody war in thar, hey? hey?" with eager insistence. "Shut 'em in thar fur good an' all, I reckon,--git buried a leetle before thar time, that's all," said Taft coolly, and went on with his work as before.