A neighbor, who happened to be at the house, eyed him curiously. “Ef I war you-uns, Ab,” he said, “I’d ’low ez He hed fursook me whenst He let my eyes git put out.” The brave fellow had had no repinings, not even when the war was his daily thought. Now he seemed to have forgotten it, so full, and varied, and cheerful an interest had this little creature brought into his life. Often aunt Jemima would tell in gladsome superlatives what she looked like, and when she spoke he would turn an intent smiling face toward her as if he beheld some charming image. What was the use of talking, Ike thought, remembering all this. They would not jeopardize the loan of this treasure for all that Jerry Binwell could do or say. He cut away vehemently at the wood, making the chips fly and the mountain echoes ring. He responded curtly, but without discourtesy, when Jerry Binwell came out of the house, took a seat upon the wood-pile, and began to talk to him. Jerry had a confidential tone, and he slyly laughed at the folks in the Cove, and he took on a comrade-like manner—implying a certainty of appreciation and sympathy—that might once have flattered Ike, coming from one so much older than himself. Now, however, Ike merely swung the axe in silence, casting an occasional distrustful glance at the thin sharp face with its long grayish goatee. More than once he encountered a keen inquiring look that did not seem to agree with the careless, casual nature of the talk. “Old Jake Corbin—ye know him; oh yes, ye seen me h’ist him up on the beam thar at the store—waal, he be powerful keen ter get a chance ter torment other folks, but cut a joke on him, an’ I tell ye, old Jake’ll git his mad up, sure. I seen him the ’tother day, an’ he plumb looked wild-cats at me—fairly glared. Tell ye, Ike, ye an’ me’ll git round him some day, an’ hev some fun out’n him—git his dander up an’ see him hop.” He winked at Ike and chewed resolutely on his huge quid of tobacco. “Naw, I won’t,” said Ike suddenly. “I hev’ been raised ter respec’ my elders. An’ I’m a-goin’ ter do it now jes’ the same ez afore ye kem.” “Bless my bones!” cried Jerry Binwell, affecting contemptuous surprise and speaking in a jeering falsetto voice. “Jes’ listen how leetle Sally do talk—ye plumb perlite leetle gal!” He leered unpleasantly at the flushing boy. Then he suddenly resumed his natural tone and his former manner, as if he had borne no part in this interlude. “Ye oughter hear how he talks ’bout you-uns, Ike—’lows ye air plumb lazy.” “That war a true word whenst he said it,” interpolated Ike. “An’ never done yer work, an’ war onreliable, an’ onstiddy, an’ hedn’t no grit ter stan’ up ter yer word, an’ thar war no sech thing ez makin’ a man out’n ye. I hearn him say that an’ mo’, ’fore twenty other men.” Ike’s axe had dropped to the ground. He listened with a red cheek and a glowing eye. The other watched him intently. “Waal, that’s pretty tough talk,” said Ike. “’Tis _that_!” assented Binwell.