“I will have thee to understand that I have sat for thirty long years at the head of the Friends' meeting in this town and never has it been said that my wits are cracked. Furthermore, this is none of thy affair. Move on.” Farr merely shifted his feet and took an easier pose at the fence. “Feeling as I do, it will not trouble me much to come over there and take a chop or two at thee,” warned the old man. “I didn't know that Quakers ever allowed their feelings to get so highly spiced.” “Along with thee, tramp!” “You see, my dear sir,” drawled the man in the road, “I am out in search of peace of mind. If I should go on my way without understanding what this means my itching curiosity would never allow me another good night's sleep. A word from you to soothe curiosity, and then I go!” “Thee has seen me knocking into pieces a coffin. Is there anything strange in seeing me knock into pieces a coffin I have made with my own hands?” “No, sir. That is quite within your rights. But why? From what little I saw of it it seemed to me to be a mighty fine piece of work.” “It was,” stated the old man, a bit mollified. “Walnut with bird's-eye maple inlaid.” “May I ask if it was made for anybody who died lately?” “I made it for myself--I have had it by me for twenty years! Seeing that thee must stick thy nose into my business!” His tone was pettish and he stooped down and began to toss splinters and broken boards upon the woodpile. “Then I suppose it was--er--sort of out of date,” suggested Farr, blandly. “I see thee is minded to tease me--the world is full of fools.” He straightened as best he could, propping hands on his hips, and divided angry gaze between the man at the fence and the armored figure. “I am not going to die--I have decided to stay alive. I have a fool on my hands.” “Father, I think thee had better choose thy words a bit better in the presence of a stranger,” advised the man in armor. “Can't thee see that he is a fool?” demanded the old man. “I don't think I want to venture an opinion, sir. I'll simply say that your son's choice of a summer suit seems a little peculiar. But, of course, every man to his liking!” The old man walked down to the fence. He was crooked at the waist and his legs were hooked with the curves of age, but he strode along with brisk vigor. His gaze was as sharp as a gimlet, though the puckered lids were cocked over his eyes with the effect of little tents whose flaps were partly closed. He put his face close to Farr's. “Thee is as cheeky as a crow and as prying as a magpie and I venture to say thee is a roving scamp. But I may as well talk to thee as to anybody.” With armor rattling and squeaking, the son started toward them. “I do not care to have thee talk about me, father,” he warned. Farr noted that the son had eyes as keen and as gray as those of the elder. The armored citizen was sturdy and of middle age and the face under the vizor revealed intelligence and self-possession.