This was in truth the very man of the neighbourhood portrait.
"I am a new settler here," I said, "and I've been interested in looking at your wonderful hedge." The old man's eyes rested upon me a moment with a mingled look of suspicion and hostility.
"So you've heard o' me," he said in a high-pitched voice, "and you've heard o' my hedge." 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.