"Pure folly!" said I, plucking the iron from the fire, and beginning to beat and shape it with my hammer, but presently, remembering the strange man who had spoken my name, I looked up, and then I saw that he was gone. "Where is he?" said I involuntarily. "Where's who?" inquired John Pringle, glancing about uneasily. "The fellow who was talking to me as you came up?" "I didn't see no fellow!" said Job, looking at John and edging nearer the door. "Nor me neither!" chimed in John Pringle, looking at Job. "Why, he was leaning in at the window here, not a minute ago," said I, and, plunging the half-finished horseshoe back into the fire, I stepped out into the road, but the man was nowhere to be seen. "Very strange!" said I. "What might 'e 'ave been like, now?" inquired John. "He was tall and thin, and wore a big flapping hat." John Pringle coughed, scratched his chin, and coughed again. "What is it, John?" I inquired. "Why, then, you couldn't 'appen to notice—'im wearin' 'is 'at—you couldn't 'appen to notice if 'e 'ad ever a pair o' 'orns, Peter?" "Horns!" I exclaimed. "Or a—tail, Peter?" "Or even a—'oof, now?" suggested Job. "Come," said I, looking from one to the other, "what might you be driving at?" "Why, ye see, Peter," answered John, coughing again, and scratching his chin harder than ever, "ye see, Peter, it aren't nat'ral for a 'uman bein' to go a-vanishin' away like this 'ere—if 'twere a man as you was a-talkin' to—" "Which I doubts!" muttered Job. "If 'twere a man, Peter, then I axes you—where is that man?" Before I could answer this pointed question, old Joel Amos hobbled up, who paused on the threshold to address some one over his shoulder. "Come on, James, 'ere 'e be—come for'ard, James, like a man." Thus adjured, another individual appeared: a somewhat flaccid-looking individual, with colorless hair and eyes, one who seemed to exhale an air of apology, as it were, from the hobnailed boot upon the floor to the grimy forefinger that touched the strawlike hair in salutation. "Marnin', Peter!" said Old Amos, "this yere is Dutton." "How do you do?" said I, acknowledging the introduction, "and what can I do for Mr. Dutton?" The latter, instead of replying, took out a vivid belcher handkerchief, and apologetically mopped his face. "Speak up, James Dutton," said Old Amos. "Lord!" exclaimed Dutton, "Lord! I du be that 'ot!—you speak for I, Amos, du." "Well," began Old Amos, not ill-pleased, "this 'ere Dutton wants to ax 'ee a question, 'e du, Peter." "I shall be glad to answer it, if I can," I returned. "You 'ear that?—well, ax your question, James Dutton," commanded the old man. "W'y, ye see, Amos," began Dutton, positively reeking apology, "I du be that on-common 'ot—you ax un." "W'y, then, Peter," began Amos, with great unction, "it's 'is pigs!" "Pigs?" I exclaimed, staring. "Ah! pigs, Peter," nodded Old Amos, "Dutton's pigs; 'is sow farrowed last week—at three in the marnin'—nine of 'em!"