"Well?" said I, wondering more and more. "Well, Peter, they was a fine 'earty lot, an' all a-doin' well—till last Monday." "Indeed!" said I. "Last Monday night, four on 'em sickened an' died!" "Most unfortunate!" said I. "An' the rest 'as never been the same since." "Probably ate something that disagreed with them," said I, picking up my hammer and laying it down again. Old Amos smiled and shook his head. "You know James Dutton's pigsty, don't ye, Peter?" "I really can't say that I do." "Yet you pass it every day on your way to the 'Oller—it lays just be'ind Simon's oast-'ouse, as James 'isself will tell 'ee." "So it du," interpolated Dutton, with an apologetic nod, "which, leastways, if it don't, can't be no'ow!" having delivered himself of which, he buried his face in the belcher handkerchief. "Now, one evenin', Peter," continued Old Amos, "one evenin' you leaned over the fence o' that theer pigsty an' stood a-lookin' at they pigs for, p'r'aps, ten minutes." "Did I?" "Ay, that ye did—James Dutton see ye, an' 'is wife, she see ye tu, and I see ye." "Then," said I, "probably I did. Well?" "Well," said the old man, looking round upon his hearers, and bringing out each word with the greatest unction, "that theer evenin' were last Monday evenin' as ever was—the very same hour as Dutton's pigs sickened an' died!" Hereupon John Pringle and Job rose simultaneously from where they had been sitting, and retreated precipitately to the door. "Lord!" exclaimed John. "I might ha' knowed it!" said Job, drawing a cross in the air with his finger. "An' so James Dutton wants to ax ye to tak' it off, Peter," said Old Amos. "To take what off?" "Why, the spell, for sure." Hereupon I gave free play to my amusement, and laughed, and laughed, while the others watched me with varying expressions. "And so you think that I bewitched Dutton's pigs, do you?" said I, at last, glancing from Old Amos to the perspiring Apology (who immediately began to mop at his face and neck again). "And why," I continued, seeing that nobody appeared willing to speak, "why should you think it of me?" "W'y, Peter, ye bean't like ordinary folk; your eyes goes through an' through a man. An' then, Peter, I mind as you come a-walkin' into Siss'n'urst one night from Lord knows wheer, all covered wi' dust, an' wi' a pack on your back." "You are wrong there, Amos," said I, "it was afternoon when I came, and the Ancient was with me." "Ah! an' wheer did 'e find ye, Peter?—come, speak up an' tell us." "In the Hollow," I answered. "Ay, 'e found 'ee in the very spot wheer the Wanderer o' the Roads 'ung 'isself, sixty an' six years ago." "There is nothing very strange in that!" said I. "What's more, you come into the village an' beat Black Jarge throwin' th' 'ammer, an' 'im the strongest man in all the South Country!" "I beat him because he did not do his best—so there is nothing strange in that either."