time of which we write. He had hewn every beam and king post in it, and
set every plate and slip. And Jock Hallowell is the man who, unwittingly
starts this chronicle.

At noon, on one of those madcap April days of that Coniston country, Jock
descended from his work on the steeple to perceive the ungainly figure of
Jethro Bass coming toward him across the green. Jethro was about thirty
years of age, and he wore a coonskin cap even in those days, and trousers
tacked into his boots. He carried his big head bent forward, a little to
one aide, and was not, at first sight, a prepossessing-looking person. As
our story largely concerns him and we must get started somehow, it may as
well be to fix a little attention on him.

"Heigho!" said Jock, rubbing his hands on his leather apron.

"H-how be you, Jock?" said Jethro, stopping.

"Heigho!" cried Jock, "what's this game of fox and geese you're a-playin'
among the farmers?"

"C-callate to git the steeple done before frost?" inquired Jethro,
without so much as a smile. "B-build it tight, Jock--b-build it tight."

"Guess he'll build his'n tight, whatever it is," said Jock, looking after
him as Jethro made his way to the little tannery near by.

Let it be known that there was such a thing as social rank in Coniston;
and something which, for the sake of an advantageous parallel, we may
call an Established Church. Coniston was a Congregational town still, and
the deacons and dignitaries of that church were likewise the pillars of