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"You certainly ought to be a competent judge of a minister's duty, Coonie," replied the schoolmaster sarcastically. Mr. Basketful paused in the operation of weighing the butter. "Coonie's right," he said, with conviction. "Mr. Egerton can preach, but 'e's not wot I call spiritually minded." "That's it!" cried Coonie.
But this particular Miss Hamilton understood Coonie's dark ways and knew how to deal with him. She darted across the road and caught old Bella by the head. "Hold on now, smarty!" she said. "You needn't pretend you've turned deaf and blind all at once, you're stupid enough without. Here's a parcel for Aunt Mary McLean, Coonie, and mother wants you to take it to her, please, like an old duck.
Duncan had never before tried to exercise a restraining influence upon Coonie's tongue, though as he watched his old buckboard straying down into the valley, crossing and recrossing the road, to allow its owner to joke and gossip with this one and that, the Watchman often thought what a power for good Coonie might be in Glenoro if only his heart were touched by the grace of God.
"Gosh!" Coonie's amazement would have deceived a much more astute individual than Sylvanus Todd. "What's that old wind-mill got himself flappin' about now?" "About gettin' the organ for the Presbyterian church. Watson spoke to Splinterin' Andra about it an' the old fellow gave him Hail Columbia, as they say in the States." Mr. Basketful was coming out with the mall-bag.
Watson had cautioned him to bring home, and stared at the speaker. "What on earth do you mean?" he inquired incredulously. "Why, didn't you hear?" Coonie's tone was a master-piece of pained amazement. "Why, old Middleton's kickin' like a steer about this patriotic concert you're gettin' up. Says he bets it's another Mackenzie business all over, and he'll have the law if it ain't stopped.
Coonie's face expressed profound astonishment, not unmixed with gentle reproof. "Is that so? Glad to hear it, sir, glad to hear it." He shook his head doubtfully as he spoke, and rode away, his shoulders drooping suspiciously.
Basketful took the mail-bag with a withering air. "Kind o'," he remarked sarcastically. "Guess your 'orse 'ad a sunstroke on the road. 'Ere 'Syl, tend to that hanimal, will you?" A stylishly dressed young man came down with elegant leisure from his position on a cracker barrel and proceeded to water Coonie's horse.
Mr. Basketful was a choleric Englishman, and one of Coonie's chief diversions was to put him into a rage by a dilatory approach to the village. So, seeing his enemy on the lookout, he let old Bella crawl down the hill with maddening slowness, looking round, meanwhile, for somebody with whom he might stop and talk.
Well, I never," he added, noticing Coonie's bumps and bandages. "Have you been in a fight?" "Just a little fuss with Farmer Jones' dog. He's twice my size and a regular bully," Coonie answered, as he brushed by Chuck in such a hurry that he did not hear the latter call after him.
"Only," he added, "it is much cleaner than what you have been eating." "Oh, Coonie, tell me where it is, won't you, please?" cried Chuck, stopping his toilet and catching up Coonie's paw. "I just dearly love it, and I'll be your lifelong friend if you will tell me where it is so I can get some more." Now Coonie felt very mischievous, and he thought of a plan that would give him some fun.
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