The Loafer opened one eye cautiously and fixed it on the stranger. “What was that awful thing I heard ye tellin’ ’bout snakes, jest afore I was smothered under that last hay-load o’ hair?” “Oh, hoop-snakes,” replied the Dunkard. He paused from his work of brushing the flies from the mule’s legs with a horse-tail. “We hev plenty o’ them ’round our placet. They don’t trouble no one tho’ tell ye bother them. Then they’re awful.” He turned his attention to the beast’s hoofs and began sweeping them. A smile was lurking about the corners of his mouth. “Did ye ever run agin any o’ these hoop----” The Blacksmith’s query was cut short by a loud “Ouch!” “See here,” said the Loafer with emphasis. “Either he’ll hev to quit tellin’ stories or I quit gittin’ me hair cut.” Then to the stranger, “Is hoop-snakes so wery pisonous?” “Pisonous!” replied the Dunkard. “Well, I should say they was. One o’ the awfullest things I ever seen was jest the ozzer day ’hen I was workin’ in the fiel’. All o’ a suddent one o’ these wipers jumps outen the hay an’ strikes. I seen it jest in time to step aside. Its fangs struck the han’le o’ me fork.” The stranger fell to brushing flies again. “Well, what happened that----” “There ye go,” the Loafer cried, ducking forward and almost tumbling from the anvil. “Keep your eye on my head an’ not on every Tom, Dick an’ Harry in the shop.” He readjusted himself on his perch and blew away a bunch of hair that had settled on his nose. “What happened?” he inquired, fixing his least exposed eye on the man from Raccoon Valley. “Quick ez a flash the han’le o’ my pitch-fork swole up tell it was thick ez my arm.” The Dunkard had fixed his gaze intently on the forefeet of the mule and was beating them industriously with the horse-tail. The smith wheeled about abruptly and gazed at the stranger. “That was an awful thing to experience,” he said. But there was a ring of doubt in his voice. The Loafer peered over his shoulder and ventured. “Yes. It was the worst jag yit. But I don’t mind. I’m gittin’ accustomed.” The rattle of the pile of wheels upon which the G. A. R. Man was sitting announced that the veteran was getting restless and was preparing for action. For a long time he had been smoking in silence, listening to the strange tales of the strange man from Raccoon Valley. Now he spoke. “If your story is true then that was an awful thing.” He seemed to be weighing each word. “Still, it wasn’t so awful ez a thing that happened to me durin’ the war.” “There ye are agin,” cried the Loafer. “Can’t a man tell a story ’thout you tryin’ to go him one better? I don’t believe ye was in the war anyway.” “Don’t I git a pension?” The veteran closed one eye and stuck out his lower jaw threateningly. “That ain’t no sign,” ventured the Miller from the carpenter bench. “Well, what fer a sign does you unsez want?” roared the G. A. R. Man. “Does you expect a felly to go th’oo life carryin’ a musket? Ef ye does----”