mind quite easy. As to the day off, he was glad to have that
question settled by a quarrel between his employees, thus relieving
him of responsibility.

Birt's wrath was always evanescent, and he was sorry a moment
afterward for what he had said. Andy Byers exchanged no more words
with him, and skillfully combined a curt and crusty manner toward
him with an aspect of contemplative dreariness. Occasionally, as
they paused to rest, Byers would sigh deeply.

"A mighty good old woman, Mrs. Price war." He spoke as if she were
already dead. "A mighty good old woman, though small-sized."

"A little of her went a long way. She war eighty-four year old, an'
kep' a sharp tongue in her head ter the las'," rejoined the tanner,
adopting in turn the past tense.

Rufe listened with startled interest. Now and then he cocked up his
speculative eyes, and gazed fixedly into the preternaturally solemn
face of Byers, who reiterated, "A good old woman, though small-
sized."

With this unaccustomed absorption Rufe's accomplishment of getting
under-foot became pronounced. The tanner jostled him more than
once, Birt stumbled against his toes, and Byers, suddenly turning,
ran quite over him. Rufe had not far to fall, but Byers was a tall
man. His arms swayed like the sails of a windmill in the effort to
recover his balance. He was in danger of toppling into the pit, and
in fact only caught himself on his knees at its verge.