scraping the earth from the
surface with his long-handled shovel, and heaping it conscientiously
round the butt of the post, his face like a block of wood, and his lips
set grimly. Dave broke out first (with bush oaths):

"What's the matter with you? Spit it out! What have I been doin' to you?
What's yer got yer rag out about, anyway?"

Andy faced him suddenly, with hatred for "funny business" flashing in
his eyes.

"What did you say to my sister Mary about Lizzie Porter?"

Dave started; then he whistled long and low. "Spit it all out, Andy!" he
advised.

"You said she was travellin' with a feller!"

"Well, what's the harm in that? Everybody knows that--"

"If any crawler says a word about Lizzie Porter--look here, me and you's
got to fight, Dave Bentley!" Then, with still greater vehemence, as
though he had a share in the garment: "Take off that coat!"

"Not if I know it!" said Dave, with the sudden quietness that comes to
brave but headstrong and impulsive men at a critical moment: "Me and you
ain't goin' to fight, Andy; and" (with sudden energy) "if you try it on
I'll knock you into jim-rags!"

Then, stepping close to Andy and taking him by the arm: "Andy, this
thing will have to be fixed up. Come here; I want to talk to you." And
he led him some paces aside, inside the boundary line, which seemed a
ludicrously unnecessary precaution, seeing that there was no one within
sight or hearing save Dave's horse.

"Now, look here, Andy; let's have it over. What's the matter with you
and Lizzie Porter?"

"I'M travellin' with her, that's all; and we're going to get married in
two years!"

Dave gave vent to another long, low whistle. He seemed to think and make
up his mind.

"Now, look here, Andy: we're old mates, ain't we?"

"Yes; I know that."

"And do you think I'd tell you a blanky lie, or crawl behind your back?
Do you? Spit it out!"

"N--no, I don't!"

"I've always stuck up for you, Andy, and--why, I've fought for you
behind your back!"

"I know that, Dave."

"There's my hand on it!"

Andy took his friend's hand mechanically, but gripped it hard.

"Now, Andy, I'll tell you straight: It's Gorstruth about Lizzie Porter!"

They stood as they were for a full minute, hands clasped; Andy with his
jaw dropped and staring in a dazed sort of way at Dave. He raised his
disengaged hand helplessly to his thatch, gulped suspiciously, and asked
in a broken voice:

"How--how do you know it, Dave?"

"Kno