His face grew purple, his eyes narrowed to pin
points and grew red and angry--like the eyes of an infuriated
boar. His hands shook. Suddenly he turned upon me, poising his
stick in his hand, and said violently.
"And who are you? Who are you? Are you one of these surveyor
fellows?"
"My name," I answered as quietly as I could, "is Grayson. I live
on the old Mather farm. I am not in the least interested in any
of your road troubles."
He looked at me a moment more, and then seemed to shake himself
or shudder, his eyes dropped away and he began walking toward his
house. He had taken only a few steps, however, before he turned,
and, without looking at me, asked if I would like to see the
tools he used for trimming his hedge. When I hesitated, for I was
decidedly uncomfortable, he came up to me and laid his hand
awkwardly on my arm.
"You'll see something, I warrant, you never see before."
It was so evident that he regretted his outbreak that I followed
him, and he showed me an odd double ladder set on low wheels
which he said he used in trimming the higher parts of his hedge.
"It's my own invention," he said with pride.
"And that"--he pointed as we came out of the tool shed--"is my
house--a good house. I planned it all myself.
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