with a baleful side-glance. "Does politeness come nat'ral to you,
or did you learn it out of a book?"

The Cap'n made no reply. He only hitched himself forward as though
trying to assist the momentum of the cart, and clutched his buckets,
one in each hand.

A woman came flying out of the first house they passed and squalled:

"Where's the fire, Mr. Brackett, and is anybody burnt up, and hadn't
you jest as liv' take my rags now? I've got 'em all sacked and ready
to weigh, and I sha'n't be to home after to-day."

Brackett pulled up.

"Blast your infernal pelt," howled the Cap'n, "you drive on!"

"Bus'ness is bus'ness," muttered the peddler, "and you ain't bought
me and my team with that little old ten dollars of yourn, and you
can't do northin', anyway, till Hecla gits there with the boys, and
when you're there I don't see what you're goin' to amount to with
that sore toe."

He was clearly rebellious. Cap'n Sproul had touched the tenderest
spot in T.W. Brackett's nature by that savage yelp at his vocal
efforts. But the chief of the Ancients had been wounded as cruelly
in his own pride. He stood up and swung a bucket over the crouching
peddler.

"Drive on, you lubber," he howled, "or I'll peg you down through that