place.

Quiet, patient men, when goaded beyond a certain point, are capable of
terrible ebullitions of anger, and Holcroft was no exception. It seemed to
him that night that the God he had worshiped all his life was in league with
man against him. The blood rushed to his face, his chilled form became rigid
with a sudden passionate protest against his misfortunes and wrongs.
Springing from the wagon, he left his team standing at the barn door and
rushed to the kitchen window. There before him sat the whole tribe from the
shanty, feasting at his expense. The table was loaded with coarse profusion.
Roast fowls alternated with fried ham and eggs, a great pitcher of milk was
flanked by one of foaming cider, while the post of honor was occupied by the
one contribution of his self-invited guests--a villainous-looking jug.

They had just sat down to the repast when the weazen-faced patriarch of the
tribe remarked, by way of grace, it may be supposed, "Be jabers, but isn't
ould Holcroft givin' us a foine spread the noight! Here's bad luck to the
glowerin' ould skinflint!" and he poured out a bumper from the jug.

The farmer waited to see and hear no more. Hastening to a parlor window, he
raised it quietly and clambered in; then taking his rusty shotgun, which he
kept loaded for the benefit of the vermin that prowled about his hen-roost, he
burst in upon the startled group.

"Be off!" he shouted. "If you value your lives, get out of that door, and
never show your faces on my place again. I'll not be eaten out of house and
home by a lot of jackals!"

His weapon, his dark, gleaming eyes, and desperate aspect taught the men that
he was not to be trifled with a moment, and they slunk away.