"That boy will sure go to the devil now," was Mr. Strout's comment.

"I don't think so," said Hiram. "He's too much like his father."

"How do you know where his father has gone?" snapped Mr. Strout, who did not believe, evidently, that good works were a sure pa.s.sport to future bliss.

Quincy's vacation after his first year at Andover was pa.s.sed at Fernborough. He was warmly welcomed and congratulated upon the great fortune that had fallen to him.

"He's got a big head, sure enough," said Mr. Strout, "but I think he's a little weak in the legs. He won't disgust the community by fightin' as his father did."

"I wish he'd thrash Bob Wood's son--he's too impudent to live," said Mrs. Amanda Maxwell, to whom Mr. Strout had addressed his remark.

"No danger o' that," and Mr. Strout laughed gleefully. "Young Bob's as good with his fists as his father was."

"He didn't amount to much when Mr. Sawyer tackled him," and with a scornful laugh Mrs. Maxwell flounced out of the store.

"Your wife's as bad as the rest on 'em, Hiram."

"Yes, Obadiah; it seems to be whoopedemic, as the doctors say."

Quincy's second and third years at Andover pa.s.sed quickly and again vacation time had come.

"Let's go to Fernborough as usual," said Quincy, and Tom, without argument, seconded the motion. This time, Tom was Quincy's guest. They were young men now. Quincy was seventeen and Tom nineteen, but the fields were as green, the fruit as sweet, the vegetables as crisp and fresh, and their friends as glad to see them as when they were children.

A year had brought some changes. Mrs. Maxwell mourned the loss of her son Obadiah, who had been gored by an angry bull and found dead in the West pasture. For a wonder, Mr. Strout showed some sympathy, perhaps because the little boy was his namesake.

The Rev. Caleb Howe had pa.s.sed away. In his place the church had called the Rev. Hudson Quarles, a bachelor of forty, whose hobby was fancy fowls. He joined the Grange and talked on "Poultry Raising" and "A Small Fortune in Squabs." His hens were the heaviest for their age in the community, and to prove it he was always willing to "weigh up" at the grocery store.

Mr. Strout called him a crank and played a joke on him that led to a division in the church and came near costing Mr. Strout his position as organist.

There were two scales on the long grocery counter. Mr. Strout tampered with one of them by affixing two pounds of lead to it which he covered with gold paint to hide the deception.

Bob Wood's hen was weighed in the fraudulent scales and beat Mr.

Quarles' by a half pound, the clergyman's being really a pound and a half the heavier. The plot would have been a success but for the keen-eyed Quincy who examined the scales and discovered the imposition.

Mr. Strout declared it was all a joke and that he was going to own up when he got ready to do so. This explanation was accepted by some and scoffed at by others. Naturally, Mr. Strout looked upon Quincy as a meddler.

"By G.o.dfrey!" he exclaimed to Hiram, "either that Sawyer boy or me has got to leave town."

"When are yer goin'?" asked Hiram, quietly, but he got no reply.

Miss Dixie Schaffer retired from the stage and settled down. Her mother-in-law, being an invalid confined to her room, prevented any interference in her household affairs, and she was free from suggestions as to what she should give, and what she shouldn't give her son, who had been named Hugh after her own father.

Many new people had moved into the town. Among the newcomers was a former detective on the Boston police force named Horace Dana. Through an injury received in making an important arrest, he had become a cripple, able to get around only slowly and with crutches. He was a widower with one daughter, about fifteen years of age, named Mary.

The young lady was as old in appearance as many girls of eighteen, and her looks so belied her age, that the village beaux paid court to her at once. Her most persistent suitor was young Bob Wood who had just reached his majority.

As she was walking one day in the Center Road, far from any dwelling, she met Bob. He improved the opportunity by asking her to be his wife.

"Why, Mr. Wood, I'm too young to marry."

"But I'm just old enough," said Bob, "and you suit me exactly."

"Mr. Wood, I'm going to tell you the truth. I'm not yet fifteen years old. Father says I can't have a beau till I'm eighteen, and I'm sure I don't want one."

Bob had learned much street slang during his visits to Cottonton, and considered its acquisition a benefit and its use an accomplishment.

"You've said it. Now sneeze it, and dust your brain."

Mary regarded him with astonishment. "I don't understand such language, Mr. Wood. What do you mean? I haven't a cold in my head."

Bob laughed insolently.

"No, but you've got a cold heart. What I meant by my French was that you're bluffing. If you ain't eighteen, I'm a primary school boy."

"Then you don't believe me!" Mary's blue eyes opened to their fullest extent.

Bob thought those blue eyes and light brown hair, golden in the sunlight, those rosy cheeks, and pretty mouth made a most attractive picture, and, in his rough way, he really loved her.

"I'm going home," said Mary, "and I shall tell my father you said I lied to you."

"No, you don't," cried Bob, and he grasped her arm so tightly that she winced. "You don't go until you promise me not to say anything to your father."

"I won't promise!" Hot tears filled her eyes.

"Then you don't go," and Bob tightened his grip.

The next moment a hand clutched his coat collar and he was thrown violently on his back.

Bob, who was agile, was quickly on his feet again and faced his a.s.sailant. "Oh, that's you, Sawyer, is it? Why do you interfere with what's none of your business?"

"I think it is," said Quincy, calmly. "My, friend and I--" He turned, and at that moment Tom emerged from behind a clump of bushes at the roadside.

"My friend and I," Quincy repeated, "were behind those bushes and overheard your insulting language to this young lady and your brutal treatment of her."

"Hiding to see what you could hear," said Bob, sneeringly.

"Not at all. We came 'cross lots and were just stepping into the road when we espied you, and retreated, awaiting your departure."

"Very prettily said, Master Sawyer, but I don't believe a word of it."

"You called this young lady a liar and she was powerless to resent it, but I'm not. Tom, hold my coat."

"Oh, please don't fight," pleaded Mary. "I'll never speak to him again."

"Say, Quincy," exclaimed Tom, "he's too heavily built for you. Let me tackle him."

"Two to one! I s'pose that's what you city sn.o.bs call fair play."