When the song was finished Evans gave the singer neighborly greeting and strode on to the mill, True following him, more like a dog than a horse. The sun was gone and the evening shadows were beginning to fall, but there were still lingering along the horizon long streaks of crimson and gold that tinged the river with color. In evident discussion, near a log at the mill, stood a group of farmers. Evans and True approached. Nathan Nye, friendly and jovial, whittling a birch stick, looked up as Evans said: “How be ye all?” “Why not give Bob’s horse a show?” he asked, a twinkle in his keen blue eyes, a smile brightening his genial face. Horses and oxen were hitched to the limbs of trees or grazed near at hand, quite without interest in whatever was taking place. Sledges and wagons rested their shafts on the ground, seeming to wait patiently. “Is it a pulling bee?” asked Evans, leaning against True’s side. “Yaas, but I guess it’s abeout over, now,” drawled a lank youth, coming out of the mill with a sack of meal on his shoulder. “Anybody but you in a hurry to be going home-along?” questioned Nye, crushingly. The youth did not answer, but went on to his sledge. “There’s a jug of Medford rum in the store for the owner of the horse that can get that there log on my runway this evening,” explained Miller Chase to Evans. “Now I want to know!” exclaimed Evans, carelessly, “Why didn’t you say so before? You seem to be making quite a chore of a very simple thing; I’ll just have my little horse do it for you in a jiffy!” A shout of derisive laughter greeted his remark. “Now do tell!” cried Hiram Sage, sarcastically. “That pony pull a log my Jim refused?” scoffed another. “My ‘pony,’ as you call him,” laughed Evans, good-naturedly, “has never refused me yet.” He placed his arm over True’s neck; the horse rattled his chains musically, and reached for a low-handing bough. “Work is play for this animal,” Evans went on. “We’ve been in the logging-field all day, but that don’t make a mite o’ difference to the Morgan horse. Come, show us your log!” True shook himself again and went on chewing leaves. “Why, that beast’s naught but a colt!” said Jim’s owner, scornfully. “Colt or no, he’s the finest bit o’ horse-flesh this side of The Plains of Abraham!” Evans contended, hotly. “Give him his head and he goes like a shot and doesn’t pull an ounce, and as for drawing a load--when this horse starts, _something’s_ got to come! That is,” he added with a laugh, “as long as the tugs last!” “Well, stop your bragging,” said the sarcastic Hiram; “actions speak louder than words. Hitch him up that there ‘something’ and let us see it ‘come’.” Miller Chase stepped forward, hospitably. “First come in, men, and fix up your bets over a mug,” he said.