On the bench that fronted Elm Tree Inn sat Billy the Fool meanwhile. He had waited, with his inimitable faith and patience, for a fill of tobacco and a half-pint of ale to drop from the skies; and his faith had been fulfilled, for down the road from his forge came David the Smith. “Looking sulky-like,” said David, laying his bag of tools beside his crony and sitting near to him. “Nay, not I. I never look sulky, David. ’Tis not good for this right wholesome world to look sulky,” said Billy. “I was thinking, David, and thinking makes a daft-witted chap have fearsome aches and pains in his inward parts, as a daft-witted chap might say.” David gave out his big, rolling laugh as he clapped Billy on the back. “Guess what’s a-going wrong with thee, laddikins. Empty pipe, I see.” “Ay. And I’m empty o’ matches too,” said Billy, his face like Sharprise Hill with the April look on it. “Empty in the low-ward parts, moreover,” he added, after he had filled his rakish pipe and lit it. “I’m terrible in need of a sup o’ summat, David. Reuben Gaunt came by this way awhile since and offered me what ye might call body-warmth, and I couldn’t seem to stomach it--nay, I couldn’t, David, not how he’d tried to pour it down my windpipe.” “Gaunt been down to the village to-day?” snapped David. “Pretends to be a farmer, yet doesn’t go on farmward shanks to Shepston market come Thursday every week.” “No, he wouldn’t,” said the other slowly, as he pulled eagerly at his pipe. “Mister Reuben Gaunt is not by way of farming, as I look on and see ye busy folk a-farming, like. Does it for play, like Billy.” David rarely lost his temper, and still more rarely did he seek expression for his feelings in strong language; but now he was silent for a moment, thinking of his love for Priscilla, fearing Gaunt’s love of her; and a sudden cry escaped him. “Damn Reuben Gaunt, and the first day he set eyes on Garth again!” he said. “Shouldn’t swear, David,” put in the other slyly. “Parson do say, whenever he stoops to talk to the likes o’ me, that folk who swear go to a fearful dry and overwarm spot. He’s wiser than ye or me, is parson, David, and we should listen to him, we.” “Then he should tell us,” responded David grimly, “why deep-set troubles come to a man, Billy, without his earning them, and why a man must swear at times, or else do something worse.” “Ay, ’tis a terrible makeshift sort of a world--terrible makeshift, David; but yet, in a manner of speaking and as a body might say, ye understand, it suits Billy right well. There’s always fields and hedgerows, eh?”