He went limping out of the door, loaded with his equipment.

The Methodist bell had not begun to ring, and it was evident that the messenger of ill tidings had not pattered into the village as yet.

But there was a team in sight.  It was “Balm o’ Joy” Brackett, his arms akimbo as he fished on the reins to hurry his horse.  He was coming from the direction of the toll-bridge, and had evidently met the boy.

“I’ve got my lo’d—­I’ve got my lo’d, but I’ll leave behind me all o’ the ro’d,” he chirped, when the Cap’n went plunging toward him with the evident intention of getting on board.

“I’m foreman of the Ancients,” roared the Cap’n, “and I have the right to press into service any craft I see passin’.  Take me aboard, I say, dumblast ye!”

“This ain’t no high seas,” retorted Brackett, trying to lick past.  “You can drive gents out of your dooryard, but you can’t do no press-gang bus’ness on ’em.”

It was apparent that even “Balm o’ Joy’s” bland nature could entertain resentment.

“’Tain’t right to lay up grudges ag’inst a man that was fussed up like I was, Mister Brackett,” pleaded the Cap’n, hopping along beside the van.  “I’ve got to git to that fire, I tell you.  I’m the foreman!  I’ll use you right, after this.  I will, I tell you.  Lemme on board.”

“Promus’ flies high when it’s hot and dry!” twittered the peddler, still cheerful but obstinate.

“I’ll give ye five dollars to take me to Ben Ide’s—­ten!” he roared, when Brackett showed no sign of stopping.

“Promus’ on the ground can be better found.  Whoa!” cried Brackett, promptly.  “I’ll take the fare before you climb up!  You’ll be so busy when you git to the fire that I wouldn’t want to bother you then.”

The Cap’n glowered but chewed his lips to prevent retort, pulled his wallet, and paid.  Then he gathered his apparatus and grunted up to the high seat.

Far behind them the excited clang-clang of the Methodist bell was pealing its first alarm.

“By the time they git hosses up out of the fields and hitched onto ‘Hecla,’ and git their buckets and didoes and git started, I reckon things will be fried on both sides at Ben Ide’s,” chatted the peddler.

“Lick up!  Lick up!” barked the Cap’n.  “I’m payin’ for a quick ride and not conversation.”

Brackett clapped the reins along his nag’s skinny flank, set his elbows on his knees, and began: 

   “There was old Hip Huff, who went by freight,
    To Newry Corner, in—­”

“Luff, luff!” snorted the Cap’n, in disgust.

“Luff, luff?” queried the songster.

“Yes, luff!  Avast!  Belay!  Heave to!  I don’t like caterwaulin’.  You keep your mind right on drivin’ that hoss.”

“You must have been a pop’lar man all your life,” remarked the peddler, with a baleful side-glance.  “Does politeness come nat’ral to you, or did you learn it out of a book?”