colored folks had no souls; and along about the time the
fugitive-slave law was passed the folks pootty near run him out o' town
for puttin' the United States marshal on the scent of a fellow that
was breakin' for Canada. Well, it was just so when the war come. It was
known for a fact that he was in with them Secesh devils up over the line
that was plannin' a raid into Vermont in '63. He'd got pootty low down
by that time; railroads took off all the travel; tavern 'd got to be
a regular doggery; old man always drank some, I guess. That was a good
while after his girl had married Durgin. He was dead against it, and it
broke him up consid'able when she would have him: Well, one night the
old stand burnt up and him in it, and neither of 'em insured."

Whitwell laughed with a pleasure in his satire which gave the monuments
in his lower jaw a rather sinister action. But, as if he felt a rebuke
in Westover's silence, he added: "There ain't anything against Mis'
Durgin. She's done her part, and she's had more than her share of hard
knocks. If she was tough, to sta't with, she's had blows enough to
meller her. But that's the way I account for the boy. I s'pose--I'd
oughtn't to feel the way I do about him, but he's such a pest to the
whole neighborhood that he'd have the most pop'la' fune'l. Well, I guess
I've said enough. I'm much obliged to you, though, Mr.--"

"Westover," the painter suggested. "But the boy isn't so bad all the
time."

"Couldn't be," said Whitwell, with a cackle of humorous enjoyment. "He
has his spells of bein' decent, and he's pootty smart, too. But when the
other spell ketches him it's like as if the devil got a-hold of him,
as I said in the first place. I lost my wife here two-three years along
back, and that little girl you see him tormentin', she's a regular
little mother to her brother; and whenever Jeff Durgin sees her with
him, seems as if the Old Scratch got into him. Well, I'm glad I didn't
come across him that day. How you gittin' along with Lion's Head? Sets
quiet enough for you?" Whitwell rose from the stump and brushed the
clinging chips from his thighs. "Folks trouble you any, lookin' on?"

"Not yet," said Westover.

"Well, there ain't a great many to," said Whitwell, going back to his
axe. "I should like to see you workin' some day. Do' know as I ever saw
an attist at it."

"I should like to have you," said Westover. "Any time."

"All right." Whitwell pulled his axe out of the carf, a