“I reckon half the kentry-side will be thar, an’ I wants ter see the folks,” said Jubal Perkins, cheerfully.

“Then Birt will hev ter bide with the tanyard, an’ finish this job.  It don’t lie with me ter gin him a day off.  I don’t keer ef he never gits a day off,” said Byers.

This was an unnecessarily unkind speech, and Birt’s anger flamed out.

“Ef we-uns war of a size, Andy Byers,” he said, hotly, “I’d make ye divide work a leetle more ekal than ye does.”

Andy Byers dropped the hide in his hands, and looked steadily across the pit at Birt, as if he were taking the boy’s measure.

“Ye mean ter say ef ye hed the bone an’ muscle ye’d knock me down, do ye?” he sneered.  “Waal, I’ll take the will fur the deed.  I’ll hold the grudge agin ye, jes’ the same.”

They were all three busied about the pit.  The hides had been taken out, and stratified anew, with layers of fresh tan, reversing the original order,—­those that had been at the bottom now being placed at the top.  The operation was almost complete before Jubal Perkins received the news of his relative’s precarious condition.  He had no doubt that Birt was able to finish it properly, and the boy’s conscientious habit of doing his best served to make the tanner’s mind quite easy.  As to the day off, he was glad to have that question settled by a quarrel between his employees, thus relieving him of responsibility.

Birt’s wrath was always evanescent, and he was sorry a moment afterward for what he had said.  Andy Byers exchanged no more words with him, and skillfully combined a curt and crusty manner toward him with an aspect of contemplative dreariness.  Occasionally, as they paused to rest, Byers would sigh deeply.

“A mighty good old woman, Mrs. Price war.”  He spoke as if she were already dead.  “A mighty good old woman, though small-sized.”

“A little of her went a long way.  She war eighty-four year old, an’ kep’ a sharp tongue in her head ter the las’,” rejoined the tanner, adopting in turn the past tense.

Rufe listened with startled interest.  Now and then he cocked up his speculative eyes, and gazed fixedly into the preternaturally solemn face of Byers, who reiterated, “A good old woman, though small-sized.”

With this unaccustomed absorption Rufe’s accomplishment of getting under-foot became pronounced.  The tanner jostled him more than once, Birt stumbled against his toes, and Byers, suddenly turning, ran quite over him.  Rufe had not far to fall, but Byers was a tall man.  His arms swayed like the sails of a windmill in the effort to recover his balance.  He was in danger of toppling into the pit, and in fact only caught himself on his knees at its verge.

“Ye torment!” he roared angrily, as he struggled to his feet.  “G’way from hyar, or I’ll skeer ye out’n yer wits!”

The small boy ruefully gathered his members together, and after the men had started on their journey he sat down on a pile of wood hard by to give Birt his opinion of Andy Byers.