“Your lungs have the play of a pair of blacksmith’s bellows already. What on earth do you want more? But go along! I understand the business. We shall never see your face here again. Here ends the reformation of the world, so far as Miles Coverdale has a hand in it!”

“By no means,” I replied.

“I am resolute to die in the last ditch, for the good of the cause.”

“Die in a ditch!” muttered gruff Silas, with genuine Yankee intolerance of any intermission of toil, except on Sunday, the Fourth of July, the autumnal cattle-show, Thanksgiving, or the annual Fast, — “die in a ditch! I believe, in my conscience, you would, if there were no steadier means than your own labor to keep you out of it!”