But the faces of the pair told a different tale.

It was a stranger—­a young farmer from two parishes away—­who let off the first guffaw.

“A bet, naybours!—­did ’ee hear that? Take him up, little man—­he won’t eat ’ee.”

“I’ll go ten shillin’ myself, rather than miss it,” announced another voice.  “Ten shillin’ on the bantam!”

“Get out with ’ee both,” spoke up a citizen of Troy.  “You don’t know the men.  ’Tisn’t serious now—­is it, Cap’n Hocken?—­well as you’re actin’—­”

“Why not?” Cai stood, breathing hard, eyeing his adversary.  “If he means it?”

“That’s right!  Cover his money?” cried an encouraging voice behind him.

The young farmer slapped his thigh, and ran off to the next group.  “Hi, you fellows!  A match!”

He shouted it.  They turned about.  “What is it, Bill Crago?”—­for they read in his excited gestures that he had real news.

“The fun o’ the fair, boys!  Two ships’-cap’ns offering to plough for a pound a side—­if you ever!”

“Drunk!” suggested somebody.

“What’s the odds if they be?  ’Twill be all the better fun,” answered Mr Crago.  “No—­far’s one can tell they’re dead sober.  Come along and listen—­” He hurried back and they after him.

“If he chooses to back out?” Cai was taunting Bias as the crowd pressed around.  So true is it that:—­

    “To be wroth with one we love
     Doth work like madness in the brain.”

“Who wants to back out?” answered ’Bias sullenly.

“If a man insults me, I hold him to his word:  either that or he takes it back.”

“Quite right, Cap’n’;” prompted a voice.  “And he can’t tell us he didn’t say it, for I heard him!”

“I ain’t takin’ nothin’ back.”  ’Bias faced about doggedly.

By this time, as their wits cleared a little, each was aware of his folly, and each would gladly have retreated from this public exhibition of it.  But as the crowd increased, neither would be the first to yield and invite its certain jeers.  Moreover, each was furiously incensed:  anything seemed better than to be shamed by him, to give him a cheap triumph.

News of the altercation had spread.  Soon two-thirds of the spectators were trooping to join the throng in the upper field, pressing in on the antagonists, jostling in their eagerness to catch a word of the dispute.  The competitors in Class D were left to plough lonely furrows and finish them unapplauded.  Young Mr Crago had run off meantime to secure the services of the two judges.

Now Mrs Bosenna, after waiting some ten minutes by the lower gate for Dinah (whose capital fault was unpunctuality), had lost patience and walked back towards Rilla to meet and reproach her.  She had almost reached the small gate when she spied Dinah hurrying down the steep path to the highroad, and halted.  Dinah, coming up, excused herself between catches of breath.  She had been detained by the plucking of a fowl, and a feather—­or, as you might call it a fluff—­had found its way into her throat.  “Which,” said she, “the way I heaved, mistress, is beyond belief.”