It spoke well for the little Opinquake quota that only two others besides Zeke availed themselves of their liberty.  Poor Stokes was almost forced away, consoled by the hope of returning in the spring.  Zeb was sore-hearted on the day of Zeke’s departure.  His heart was in the Connecticut Valley also.  No message had come to him from Susie Rolliffe.  Those were not the days of swift and frequent communication.  Even Mrs. Jarvis had written but seldom, and her missives were brief.  Mother-love glowed through the few quaint and scriptural phrases like heat in anthracite coals.  All that poor Zeb could learn from them was that Susie Rolliffe had kept her word and had been to the farm more than once; but the girl had been as reticent as the mother.  Zeke was now on his way home to prosecute his suit in person, and Zeb well knew how forward and plausible he could be.  There was no deed of daring that he would not promise to perform after spring opened, and Zeb reasoned gloomily that a present lover, impassioned and importunate, would stand a better chance than an absent one who had never been able to speak for himself.

When it was settled that Stokes should return to Opinquake, Zeb determined that he would not give up the prize to Zeke without one decisive effort; and as he was rubbing the cobbler’s leg, he stammered, “I say Ezra, will you do me a turn?  ’Twon’t be so much, what I ask, except that I’ll like you to keep mum about it, and you’re a good hand at keeping mum.”

“I know what yer driving at, Zeb.  Write yer letter and I’ll deliver it with my own hands.”

“Well, now, I’m satisfied, I can stay on and fight it out with a clear mind.  When Zeke marched away last summer, I thought it was all up with me; and I can tell you that any fighting that’s to do about Boston will be fun compared with the fighting I did while hoeing corn and mowing grass.  But I don’t believe that Susie Rolliffe is promised to Zeke Watkins, or any one else yet, and I’m going to give her a chance to refuse me plump.”

“That’s the way to do it, Zeb,” said the bachelor cobbler, with an emphasis that would indicate much successful experience.  “Asking a girl plump is like standing up in a fair fight.  It gives the girl a chance to bowl you over, if that’s her mind, so there can’t be any mistake about it; and it seems to me the women-folks ought to have all the chances that in any way belong to them.  They have got few enough anyhow.”

“And you think it’ll end in my being bowled over?”

“How should I know, or you either, unless you make a square trial?  You’re such a strapping, fighting feller that nothing but a cannon-ball or a woman ever will knock you off your pins.”

“See here, Ezra Stokes, the girl of my heart may refuse me just as plump as I offer myself; and if that’s her mind she has a right to do it.  But I don’t want either you or her to think I won’t stand on my feet.  I won’t even fight any more recklessly than my duty requires.  I have a mother to take care of, even if I never have a wife.”