Phipps’s saucy speech was received with a great roar by the boys, who were surprised to notice that the animal himself was not only not disturbed, but very much amused by being shown up as a curiosity.

“Well, you’re a new sort of a monkey, anyway,” said the woodsman, after the laugh had subsided.  “I never hearn one talk afore.”

“You never will again,” retorted Phipps, “if you give me any more of your lip.”

The woodsman walked quickly toward Phipps, as if he were about to pull him from his seat.

Phipps saw the motion, started the horses, and was out of his way in an instant.

The boys shouted in derision, but Phipps did not come back, and the stranger was the hero.  They gathered around him, asking questions, all of which he good-naturedly answered.  He seemed to be pleased with their society, as if he were only a big boy himself, and wanted to make the most of the limited time which his visit to the town afforded him.

While he was thus standing as the center of an inquisitive and admiring group, Miss Butterworth came out of the town-hall.  Her eyes were full of tears, and her eloquent face expressed vexation and distress.  The stranger saw the look and the tears, and, leaving the boys, he approached her without the slightest awkwardness, and said: 

“Has anybody teched ye, mum?”

“Oh, no, sir,” Miss Butterworth answered.

“Has anybody spoke ha’sh to ye?”

“Oh, no, sir;” and Miss Butterworth pressed on, conscious that in that kind inquiry there breathed as genuine respect and sympathy as ever had reached her ears in the voice of a man.

“Because,” said the man, still walking along at her side, “I’m spilin’ to do somethin’ for somebody, and I wouldn’t mind thrashin’ anybody you’d p’int out.”

“No, you can do nothing for me.  Nobody can do anything in this town for anybody until Robert Belcher is dead,” said Miss Butterworth.

“Well, I shouldn’t like to kill ’im,” responded the man, “unless it was an accident in the woods—­a great ways off—­for a turkey or a hedgehog—­and the gun half-cocked.”

The little tailoress smiled through her tears, though she felt very uneasy at being observed in company and conversation with the rough-looking stranger.  He evidently divined the thoughts which possessed her, and said, as if only the mention of his name would make him an acquaintance: 

“I’m Jim Fenton.  I trap for a livin’ up in Number Nine, and have jest brung in my skins.”

“My name is Butterworth,” she responded mechanically.

“I know’d it,” he replied.  “I axed the boys.”

“Good-bye,” he said.  “Here’s the store, and I must shoulder my sack and be off.  I don’t see women much, but I’m fond of ’em, and they’re pretty apt to like me.”

“Good-bye,” said the woman.  “I think you’re the best man I’ve seen to-day;” and then, as if she had said more than became a modest woman, she added, “and that isn’t saying very much.”