Longwood hesitated for a moment; then, with a swift fear that his resolution might fail him, he rushed impetuously forward. The sharp knife in his hand struck the blacksmith beneath the shoulder blade; it was long and keen enough to have pierced his heart. There was no fault in the weapon,—a good strong knife; the hand had faltered,—no sincere hatred had nerved it. The blade fell clanking to the ground, as the blacksmith tapped the face of the anvil as a signal that the blows of the sledge should cease. He turned around slowly, his straight eyebrows lifted. “What air ye doin’ of, Andy?” he demanded. “I stabbed ye. I wanter kill ye,” Longwood muttered, doubtful of himself and bereft of his weapon, for Clem Sanders had casually stooped and picked up the knife. The movement had possibly caused the slight wound to gape. “Look-a-yander how Clem’s a-bleedin’!” exclaimed Jube Donnard, in the excited falsetto of a born sensationalist. “Great Molly Har!” cried the smith, showing emotion for the first time, “did he cut a hole in this hyar brand-new shirt? Mam hev jes’ done wove it, an’ she ’lowed ef these hyar shirts didn’t las’ me no longer ’n common, I’d hev ter git the trash cloth at the store, ready wove, or else marry a wife ter do the weavin’. Kase she ’lows it’s through gamesomeness, an’ not work, I git my clothes so tore up. Look-a-hyar, Andy,”—he fixed a severe, threatening eye on his assailant,—“ye boys air gittin’ too rough in yer playin’, kemin’ an’ a-cuttin’ other folkses clothes. Mighty pore fun.” He shook his head reprehensively, and turned excitedly toward Jube who again cried out, “Look how Clem’s a-bleedin’!” “I ain’t a-keerin’ fur that!” exclaimed the doughty blacksmith. “It will stop bleedin’ d’rectly. An’ my skin will do its own repairin’ ’thout mam ter talk a bushel medjure ’bout the sadness o’ hevin’ ter patch. What I’m tormented ’bout air this hyar tear in this new shirt. Air it sizable much?” He crooked his neck dexterously and sought to look over his shoulder to see the rent, but for all his muscle he could not accomplish the feat. “What air ye ondertakin’ ter stab folks fur, Andy Longwood?” Teck Jepson had ceased to lean against the window, and his tone was stern and inquisitorial. “What do ye want ter kill Clem fur? Do ye s’pose I’d hev stood by an’ seen ye done sech?”