"
Again he paused and looked me over. "Well," he said, with an
indescribably harsh, cackling laugh, "I warrant you've heard
nothing good o' me down there. I'm a skinflint, ain't I? I'm a
hard citizen, ain't I? I grind the faces o' the poor, don't I?"
At first his words were marked by a sort of bitter humour, but as
he continued to speak his voice rose higher and higher until it
was positively menacing.
There were just two things I could do--haul down the flag and
retreat ingloriously, or face the music. With a sudden sense of
rising spirits--for such things do not often happen to a man in a
quiet country road--I paused a moment, looking him square in the
eye.
"Yes," I said, with great deliberation, "you've given me just
about the neighborhood picture of yourself as I have had it. They
do say you are a skinflint, yes, and a hard man. They say that
you are rich and friendless; they say that while you are a just
man, you do not know mercy. These are terrible things to say of
any man if they are true."
I paused. The old man looked for a moment as though he were going
to strike me with his stick, but he neither stirred nor spoke. It
was evidently a wholly new experience for him.
"Yes," I said, "you are not popular in this community, but what
do you suppose I care about that? I'm interested in your hedge.
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