him closely.

When they had covered a hundred yards or so, Dave glanced back, and
seeing that Jack was n't pursuing them, stopped and chuckled at the
others.

"Eh?" Dad said, completely winded--"Eh?" Then to Dave, when he got
some breath:

"Well, you ARE an ass of a fellow. (PUFF!). What th' DEVIL did y' RUN
f'?"

"Wot did I run f'? What did YOU run f'?"

"Bah!" and Dad boldly led the way back.

"Now look here (turning fiercely upon Joe), don't you come catching
hold of me again, or if y' DO I'll knock y'r d--d head off!...Clear
home altogether, and get under the bed if y're as frightened as THAT."

Joe slunk behind.

But when Dad DID approach Jack, which was n't until he had talked a
great deal to him across a big log, the latter did n't show any desire
to take life, but allowed himself to be escorted home and locked in the
barn quietly enough.

Dad kept Jack confined in the barn several days, and if anyone
approached the door or the cracks he would ask:

"Is me father there yet?"

"Your father's dead and buried long ago, man," Dad used to tell him.

"Yes," he would say, "but he's alive again. The missus keeps him in
there"--indicating the house.

And sometimes when Dad was not about Joe would put his mouth to a crack
and say:

"Here's y'r FATHER, Jack!" Then, like a caged beast, the man would
howl and tramp up and down, his eyes starting out of his head, while
Joe would bolt inside and tell Mother that "Jack's getting out,", and
nearly send her to her grave.

But one day Jack DID get out, and, while Mother and Sal were ironing
came to the door with the axe on his shoulder.

They dropped the irons and shrank into a corner and cowered
piteously--too scared even to cry out.

He took no notice of them, but, moving stealthily on tip-toes,
approached the bedroom door and peeped in. He paused just a moment to
grip the axe with both hands. Then with a howl and a bound he entered
the room and shattered the looking-glass into fragments.

He bent down and looked closely at the pieces.

"He's dead now," he said calmly, and walked out. Then he went to work
at the post-holes again, just as though nothing had happened.

Fifteen years have passed since then, and the man is still at Shingle
Hut. He was the best horse Dad ever had. He slaved from daylight till
dark; keeps no Sunday; knows no companion; lives chiefly on meat and
machine oil; domiciles in the barn; and has never asked for a rise in