But Ni did not scare easily. “Oh, no,” he said, with light confidence, “me an' Abner's all right.” As if to put this assurance to the test, the figure of the farmer was at this moment visible, coming toward us down the orchard road. He was in his shirt-sleeves, with the limp, discolored old broad-brimmed felt hat he always wore pulled down over his eyes. Though he no longer held his head so proudly erect as I could remember it, there were still suggestions of great force and mastership in his broad shoulders and big beard, and in the solid, long-gaited manner of his walk. He carried a pitchfork in his hand. “Hello, Abner?” said Ni, as the farmer came up and halted, surveying each of us in turn with an impassive scrutiny. “How 'r' ye!” returned Abner, with cold civility. I fancied he must be surprised to see the son of his enemy here, calmly gnawing his way through one of our apples, and acting as if the place belonged to him. But he gave no signs of astonishment, and after some words of direction to me concerning my work, started to move on again toward the barns. Ni was not disposed to be thus cheated out of his conversation: “Seen Warner Pitts since he's got back?” he called out, and at this the farmer stopped and turned round. “You'd hardly know him now,” the butcher's assistant went on, with cheerful briskness. “Why you'd think he'd never hoofed it over ploughed land in all his life. He's got his boots blacked up every day, an' his hair greased, an' a whole new suit of broadcloth, with shoulder-straps an' brass buttons, an' a sword—he brings it down to the Corners every evening, so't the boys at the store can heft it—an' he's—” “What do I care about all this?” broke in Abner. His voice was heavy, with a growling ground-note, and his eyes threw out an angry light under the shading hat-brim. “He can go to the devil, an' take his sword with him, for all o' me!” Hostile as was his tone, the farmer did not again turn on his heel. Instead, he seemed to suspect that Ni had something more important to say, and looked him steadfastly in the face. “That's what I say, too,” replied Ni, lightly. “What's beat me is how such a fellow as that got to be an officer right from the word ‘go!’—an' him the poorest shote in the whole lot. Now if it had a' ben Spencer Phillips I could understand it—or Bi Truax, or—or your Jeff—” The farmer raised his fork menacingly, with a wrathful gesture. “Shet up!” he shouted; “shet up, I say! or I'll make ye!” To my great amazement Ni was not at all affected by this demonstration. He leaned smilingly against the barrel, and picked out another apple—a spitzenberg this time. “Now look a-here, Abner,” he said, argumentatively, “what's the good o' gittin' mad? When I've had my say out, why, if you don't like it you needn't, an' nobody's a cent the wuss off. Of course, if you come down to hard-pan, it ain't none o' my business—” “No,” interjected Abner, in grim assent, “it ain't none o' your business!”