The young man, honestly thunderstruck at the task planned for him, judged that thinking would not mend matters, and so began to work quickly without stopping to reflect.  But his thoughts could not be controlled, any more than his disposition changed.  A growing consciousness of deep and deliberate insult surged up in him.  The more he brooded the slower he worked, and finally anger mastered determination.  He flung down his spade, saluted a red sunrise with the worst language at his command, and strode down to the river.  Here, for some time and until blue smoke began to climb from the kitchen chimney of the farm, Will paced about; then with a remarkable effort returned to his task.  He actually started again, and might have carried the matter to completion; but an evil demon was abroad, and Billy, spying the young man at work anew, reappeared.

“You’m makin’ poor speed, my son,” he said, viewing the other’s progress with affected displeasure.

It proved enough, for Will’s smouldering fires were ready to leap at any fuel.

“Go to blue, blazing hell!” he cried.  “You’m at the bottom of this business, I’ll lay a pound.  Get out o’ my sight, you hookem-snivey auld devil, or I’ll rub your dirty ginger poll in it, sure’s death!”

“My stars! theer’s crooked words!  Do ‘e try an’ keep tighter hand on your temper, Blanchard.  A man should knaw hisself anyways ’fore he has the damn fulishness to take a wife.  An’ if you ax me—­”

Mr. Blee’s remarks were here brutally arrested, for the contents of Will’s spade saluted his furrowed features, and quite obliterated the old man.  He fled roaring, and the other flung his spade twenty yards away, overturned his wheelbarrow, and again strode to the river.  He was fairly bubbling and boiling now, nor did the business of cleaning gaiters and boots, arms and hands, restore him to peace.  A black pig gazed upon him and grunted as he came up from the water.  It seemed to him a reincarnation of Billy, and he kicked it hard.  It fled screaming and limping, while Will, his rage at full flood, proceeded through the farmyard on his way home.  But here, by unhappy chance, stood Mr. Lyddon watching his daughter feed the fowls.  Her husband ran full upon Phoebe, and she blushed in a great wave of joy until the black scowl upon his face told her that something was amiss.  His evident anger made her start, and the involuntary action upset her bowl of grain.  For a moment she stood motionless, looking upon him in fear, while at her feet fought and struggled a cloud of feathered things around the yellow corn.

“If you’ve done your job, Will, may’st come and shaake Phoebe by the hand,” said Mr. Lyddon nervously, while he pretended not to notice the other’s passion.

“I haven’t done it; and if I had, is a scavenger’s hand fit to touch hers?” thundered Blanchard.  “I thought you was a man to swear by, and follow through thick an’ thin,” he continued, “but you ban’t.  You’m a mean, ill-minded sawl, as would trample on your awn flesh an’ blood, if you got the chance.  Do your awn dirty work.  Who be I that you should call on me to wallow in filth to please your sour spite?”