“Whyn’t he take somebody else ter go lookin’ inter a winder at thar dead se’fs, stiddier me?” he complained. “I ain’t the only mortial man in the Cove! I jes’ didn’t know fur awhile what I war goin’ ter do ’bout’n it. An’ at las’ I went up ter pa’son’s house, an’ I called his son Jube out. An’ I say ter Jube, ‘Jube, ye an’ me hev been powerful frien’ly since we useter play ’longside o’ one another in the wood-pile, ’fore we could walk. An’ I hope I won’t break none o’ yer bones ez ye can’t spare or git the doctor ter set agin right handy, kase I’m useter hammerin’ tougher stuff’n ye be. But I’m a-goin’ ter take yer dad’s visions out on ye, bein’ ez I can’t thrash a old man an’ a preacher. Ye’ll see mo’ sights ’n ever he done.’” “What did Jube do?” asked Jepson. A dreary sense of futility was expressed in the strong man’s face. “Flung his arm around my neck, an’ begged an’ begged,” he said, baffled. “He ’lowed his dad wanted ter break up them meetin’s at the forge,—gredges we-uns our fun. He never war young hisself, ye know.” He attempted to point the weak sarcasm with a sneer. “But Jube sneaks off, an’ kems ter the forge every chance he gits. He war thar the night o’ the vision. Old man war so bent on seein’ Satan, an’ dead folks ez air live an’ hearty, he didn’t see his own son Jube ’mongst the sinners. An’ Jube war a-walkin’ round on his hands, like a plumb catamount, with his heels six feet high up in the air, a-wavin’ round.” “Mebbe that war why he didn’t see Jube, his head bein’ so nigh the groun’,” suggested Jepson. “Jube don’t ginerally kerry his heels a-top o’ him.” The blacksmith listened, but made no response. “I told Jube,” he resumed presently, “I’d let him off, ef his dad didn’t put me in none o’ his preachin’.” “Ev’ybody in Brumsaidge an’ the mountings round knows ’bout’n it, ennyhow,” said Eli Strobe. “Ye needn’t be so powerful partic’lar.” “Waal, ennyhows, ’twould in an’ about kill me ef he war ter go ter blatin’ out in the church-house, ’fore all the congregation, ’bout the devil a-laffin’ at me whilst playin’ kyerds, an’ me dead, lookin’ through the winder at my live self. Shucks!” This unique slander had sunk deep into Clem Sanders’s good-natured heart. He looked so harried and hopeless that he might well have excited sympathy, but the circumstance had certain grotesque phases which Eli Strobe could not fail to relish. “Ye hain’t done no work sence on that anvil, hev ye?” he demanded, with his slow side-glance and his air of burly jocundity, which did not always commend itself to his interlocutor. The blacksmith shook his head. “Waal, sir,” exclaimed Eli, bringing his tilted chair upon its forelegs with an abrupt thump, and placing a hand on either knee, “ef ye an’ that thar striker o’ yourn gits enny mo’ afeard o’ that thar anvil ’n ye hev always been, all the critters in the Cove’ll be bar’foot ’fore long.”