Eben lives on a southern spur, next to Amos Cuthbert, where you can look
off for forty miles across the billowy mountains of the west. From no
spot in Coniston town is the sunset so fine on distant Farewell Mountain,
and Eben's sheep feed on pastures where only mountain-bred sheep can
cling and thrive. Coniston, be it known, at this time is one of the
famous wool towns of New England: before the industry went West, with
other industries. But Eben Williams's sheep do not wholly belong to him
they are mortgaged--and Eben's farm is mortgaged.

Jethro Bass--Eben testifies to us--is in the habit of visiting him once a
month, perhaps, when he goes to Amos Cuthbert's. Just friendly calls. Is
it not a fact that Jethro Bass holds his mortgage? Yes, for eight hundred
dollars. How long has he held that mortgage? About a year and a half. Has
the interest been paid promptly? Well, the fact is that Eben hasn't paid
any interest yet.

Now let us take the concrete incident. Before that hypocritical thaw
early in February, Jethro called upon Amos Cuthbert--not so surly then as
he has since become--and talked about buying his wool when it should be
duly cut, and permitted Amos to talk about the position of second
selectman, for which some person or persons unknown to the jury had
nominated him. On his way down to the Four Corners, Jethro had merely
pulled up his sleigh before Eben Williams's house, which stood behind a
huge snow bank and practically on the road. Eben appeared at the door, a
little dishevelled in hair and beard, for he had been sleeping.

"How be you, Jethro?" he said nervously. Jethro nodded.

"Weather looks a mite soft."