"What dew ye mean?" asked Israel half timorously.

"Never mind wat I mean," replied Abner, "on'y a wum 'll turn wen it's
trod on."

"I don' bleeve but that Laban's mistook wat the Squire said. Ye ain't
none tew clever, ye know, yerself, Laban, and I callate that ye didn'
more'n half understan' wat Squire meant."

It was Ezra Phelps who announced this cheering view, which instantly
found general favor, and poor Laban's limited mental powers were at
once the topic of comments more plain spoken than flattering. Paul
Hubbard, indeed, shook his head and smiled bitterly at this revulsion
of hopefulness, but even Laban himself seemed eager to find ground for
believing himself to have been, in this instance, an ass.

"Ye see the hull thing's in a nutshell," said Abner. "Either Laban's a
fool, or else the hull caounty convenshin o' Berkshire is fools an
wuss, an I callate it's Laban."

Perhaps the back room of the store lacked for Sedgwick, a comparatively
recent resident of Stockbridge, those charms of familiarity it
possessed for the other gentlemen, for even as Abner was speaking,
he came out alone. As he saw the still waiting and undiminished crowd
of people, he frowned angrily, and mounting his horse, rode directly
toward them. Their sullen aspect, which might have caused another to
avoid them, was his very reason for seeking an encounter. As he
approached, his piercing eye rested a moment on the face of every man,
and as it did so, each eye, impelled by a powerfull magnetism, rose
deferentially to his, and every cap was pulled off.