It was a damp, drizzly day; there was not a settled rain, yet it was too wet to work in the corn.  Mark was therefore busy in picking loose stones from the surface of a field cultivated the year before, and now “seeded down” for grass.  A portion of the field bordered on a pond, and the alders upon its margin formed a dense green palisade, over which might be seen the gray surface of the water freckled by the tiny drops of rain.  Low clouds trailed their gauzy robes over the top of Mount Quobbin, and flecks of mist swept across the blue sides of the loftier Mount Elizabeth.

“What a perfect day for fishing!” thought Mark.  “If I had my tackle here, and a frog’s leg or a shiner, I would soon have a pickerel out from under those lilypads.”

But he kept at work, and, having his basket full of stones, carried them to the pond and plumped them in.  A growl of anger came up from behind the bushes.

“What the Devil do you mean, you lubber, throwing stones over here to scare away the fish?”

The bushes parted at the same time, showing Hugh Branning sitting in the end of his boat, and apparently just ready to fling out his line.

“If I had known you were there fishing,” said Mark, “I shouldn’t have thrown the stones into the water.  But,” he continued, while every fibre tingled with indignation, “I will have you to know that I am not to be talked to in that way by you or anybody else.”

“I would like to know how you are going to help yourself,” said Hugh, stepping ashore and advancing.

“You will find out, Mr. Insolence, if you don’t leave this field.  You a’n’t on the quarter-deck yet, bullying a tar with his hat off.”

“Bless me! how the young Vulcan talks!”

“I have talked all I am going to.  Now get into your boat and be off!”

“I don’t propose to be in a hurry,” said Hugh, with provoking coolness, standing with his arms a-kimbo.

The remembrance of Hugh’s usual patronizing airs, together with his insulting language, was too much for Mark’s impetuous temper.  He was in a delirium of rage, and he rushed upon his antagonist.  Hugh stood warily upon the defensive, and parried Mark’s blows with admirable skill; he had not the muscle nor the endurance of the young blacksmith, but he had considerable skill in boxing, and was perfectly cool; and though Mark finally succeeded in grappling and hurling to the ground his lithe and resolute foe, it was not until he had been pretty severely pommelled himself, especially in his face.  Mark set his knee on the breast of his adversary and waited to hear “Enough.”  Hugh ground his teeth, but there was no escape; no feint nor sudden movement could reverse their positions; and, out of breath, he gave up in sullen despair.

“Let me up,” he said, at length.  Mark arose, and being by this time thoroughly sobered, he walked off without a word and picked up his basket.