“She hasn’t done no talking to me,” said Josiah, chuckling.  “There, sir, I’m through.”

Then the released rector said, “If you talk politics again to me for the next two months, Grace, I will never tie for you another trout-fly.  Your turn,” and he left the chair to Grace, who sat down saying with the persistency of the good-humoured and tactless, “If I want a roof to my chapel, I’ve got to keep out of talking Republican polities, that’s clear—­”

“And several other things,” returned Mark sharply.

“Such as,” said Grace, but the rector had gone and Josiah was lathering the big red face.

“Got to make believe sometimes, sir,” said Josiah.  “She’s an uncommon kind lady, and the pumpkins she gives me are fine.  A fellow’s got time to think between this and November.  Pumpkins and leaky roofs do make a man kind of thoughtful.”  He grinned approval of his own wisdom.  “Now don’t talk, sir.  Might chance to cut you.”

This sly unmasking of motives, his own and those of others, was disagreeable to the good little man who was eager to get his chapel roofed and no more willing than Mrs. Penhallow to admit that how he would vote had anything to do with the much needed repairs.  His people were poor and the leaks were becoming worse and worse.  He kept his peace, and the barber smiling plied the razor.

Now the Squire paused at the open door, where he met his nephew.  “Come to get those scalp-locks trimmed, John?  They are perilously long.  If you were to get into a fight and a fellow got hold of them, you would have a bad time.”  Then as his uncle went away laughing, John knew that the Squire must have heard of his battle from Mark Rivers.  He did not like it.  Why he did not know or ask himself, being as yet too immature for such self-analysis.

Mr. Grace got up clean-shaven, adjusted a soiled paper-collar, and said, “Good-morning, John.  I am sorry to hear that a Christian lad like you should be fighting.  I am sure that neither Mr. Rivers nor your aunt would approve of it.  My son told me about it, and I think it my duty—­”

John broke in, “Then your son is a tell-tale, Mr. Grace, and allow me to say that this is none of his business.  When I am insulted, I resent it.”  To be chaffed by his own uncle when under sentence of a court-martial had not been agreeable, but this admonition was unendurable.  He entered the shop.

“Well, I never,” exclaimed the preacher, as John went by him.

The barber was laughing.  “Set down, Mr. John.”

“I suppose the whole of Westways knows it, Mr. Josiah?”

“They do, sir.  Wish I’d seen it.”

“Damn!” exclaimed John, swearing for the first time in his life.  “Cut my hair short, please, and don’t talk.”

“No, sir.  You ain’t even got a scratch.”

“Oh, do shut up,” said John.  There was a long silence while the curly locks fell.

“You gave it to the Baptist man hot.  I don’t like him.  He calls me Joe.  It isn’t respectable.  My name’s Josiah.”