The room was full of tobacco smoke when Abel entered, and as he paused,
in order to distinguish the row of silhouettes nodding against the ruddy
square of the fireplace, Adam Doolittle's quavering voice floated to him
from a seat in the warmest corner. The old man was now turning ninety,
and he had had, on the whole, a fortunate life, though he would have
indignantly repudiated the idea. He was a fair type of the rustic of the
past generation--slow of movement, keen of wit, racy of speech.

"What's this here tale about Mr. Jonathan knockin' Archie down an'
settin' on him, Abel?" he inquired. "Ain't you got yo' hand in yet,
seein' as you've been spilin' for a fight for the last fortnight?"

"I hadn't heard of it," replied Abel, his face flushing. "What in hell
did he knock Archie down for?"

"Jest for shooting' a few birds that might as well have been flying
about on yo' land as on his, if thar minds had been set over toward
you."

"Do you mean Mr. Jonathan got into a quarrel with him for hunting on
his land? Why, we shot over those fields for a hundred years before the
first damned Gay ever came here."

"So we have--so we have, but it seems we ain't a-goin' to do so any
longer if Mr. Jonathan can find a way to prevent it. Archie was down
here jest a minute or two arter you went by this mornin', an' he was
swearin' like thunder, with a busted lip an' a black eye."

A smarting sensation passed over Abel, as though the change to the warm