The creek, swollen with
the July rain, ran full in its narrow channel, sparkling
and swirling over its gravelly bed, and on the green
meadow below the house a herd of shorthorns contentedly
cropped the tender after-grass.
In the farmyard a gigantic turkey-gobbler marched
majestically with arched neck and spreading wings, feeling
himself very much the king of the castle; good-natured
ducks puddled contentedly in a trough of dirty water;
pigeons, white winged and graceful, circled and wheeled
in the sunshine; querulous-voiced hens strutted and
scratched, and gossiped openly of mysterious nests hidden
away.
Sam stood leaning on a pitchfork in front of the barn
door. He was a stout man of about fifty years of age,
with an ox-like face. His countenance showed the sullen
stolidity of a man who spoke little but listened always,
of a man who indulged in suspicious thoughts. He knew
everything about his neighbours, good and bad. He might
forget the good, but never the evil. The tragedies, the
sins, the misdeeds of thirty years ago were as fresh in
his memory as the scandal of yesterday. No man had ever
been tempted beyond his strength but Sam Motherwell knew
the manner of his undoing. He extended no mercy to the
fallen; he suggested no excuse for the erring.
The collector made known his errand. Sam became animated
at once.
"What?" he cried angrily, "ain't that blamed thing paying
yet? I've a good notion to pull my money out of it and
be done with it.
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