doing a favor, rigorously to
exact a set-off, and that night when the blacksmith had left the shop,
Jube slouched in.

The flare of the forge-fire illumined with a fitful flicker the dark
interior, showing the rod across the corner with its jingling weight of
horseshoes, a ploughshare on the ground, the barrel of water, the low
window, and casting upon the wall a grotesque shadow of Jube's dodging
figure as he began to ply the bellows.

Presently he left off, the panting roar ceased, the hot iron was laid on
the anvil, and his dodging image on the wall was replaced by an immense
shadow of Ike's big right arm as he raised it. The blows fell fast; the
sparks showered about. All the air was ajar with the resonant clamor of
the hammer, and the anvil sang and sang, shrill and clear. When the iron
was hammered cold, Jube broke the momentary silence.

"I hev got," he droned, as if he were reciting something made familiar
by repetition, "two roosters, 'leven hens, an' three pullets."

There was a long pause, and then he chanted, "One o' the roosters air a
Dominicky."

He walked over to the anvil and struck it with a small bit of metal
which he held concealed in his hand.

"I hev got two shoats, a bag o' dried peaches, two geese, an' I'm
tradin' with mam fur a gayn-der."

He quietly slipped the small bit of shining metal in his pocket.

"I hev got," he droned, waxing very impressive, "a red heifer."

Ike paused meditatively, his hammer in his hand. A new hope was dawning
within him. He knew what was meant by Jube, who often recited the list
of his possessions, seeking to rouse enough envy to induce Ike to
exchange for the "lay out" his interest in a certain gray mare.

Now the mare really belonged to Ike, having come to him from his
paternal grandfather. This was all of value that the old man had left;
for the deserted log hut, rotting on another bleak waste farther down in
Poor Valley, was worth only a sigh for the home that it once
was,--worth, too, perhaps, the thanks of those it sheltered now, the rat
and the owl.

The mare had worked for Pearce Tallam in the plough, under the saddle,
and in the wagon all the years since. But one day, when the boy fell
into a rage,--for he, too, had a difficult temper,--and declared that
he would sell her and go forth from Poor Valley never to return, he was
met by the question, "Hain't the mare lived off'n my fields, an' hain't
I gin ye yer grub, an' clothes, an' the roof that