Part 9

Dave was Andy's opposite in one respect: he jumped to conclusions, as women do; but, unlike women, he was mostly wrong. He was an old chum and mate of Andy's who had always liked, admired, and trusted him. But now, to his helpless surprise, Andy went on 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?”

“Know it? Andy, I SEEN 'EM MESELF!”

“You did, Dave?” in a tone that suggested sorrow more than anger at Dave's part in the seeing of them.

“Gorstruth, Andy!”

. . . . .