The man had left the pitchfork in the loft, clambered down the ladder, and now strode toward Taleswapper with his arms out as if to hug him. “Welcome here, stranger,” said the man. “I’m Alvin Miller, and these are my two youngest sons, Alvin Junior and Calvin.”

“Cally,” corrected the younger boy.

“He doesn’t like the way our names rhyme,” said Alvin Junior. “Alvin and Calvin. See, they named him like me hoping he’d grow up to be as fine a specimen of manhood as I am. Too bad it ain’t working.”

Calvin gave him a shove of mock anger. “Near as I can tell, he was the first try, and when I came along they finally got it right!”

“Mostly we call thern Al and Cally,” said the father.

“Mostly you call us ‘shutup’ and ‘get over here,’” said Cally.

Al Junior gave him a whack on the shoulder and sent him sprawling in the dirt. Whereupon his father placed a boot on his backside and sent him head over heels out the door. All in fun. Nobody was hurt. How could I have thought there was murder going on here?

“You come with a message? A letter?” asked Alvin Miller. Now, that the boys were outside, yelling at each other across the meadow, the grown men could get a word in.

“Sorry,” said Taleswapper. “Just a traveler. A young lady in town said I might find a place to sleep up here. In exchange for whatever good hard work you might have for my arms.”

Alvin Miller grinned. “Let me see how much work those arms can do.” He thrust out an arm, but it wasn’t to shake hands. He gripped Taleswapper by the forearm and braced his right foot against Taleswapper’s right foot. “Think you can throw me?” asked Alvin Miller.

“Just tell me before we start,” said Taleswapper, “whether I’ll get a better supper if I throw you, or if I don’t throw you.”

Alvin Miller leaned back his head and whooped like a Red. “What’s your name, stranger?”

“Taleswapper.”

“Well, Mr. Taleswapper, I hope you like the taste of dirt, cause that’s what you’ll eat before you eat anything else here!”

Taleswapper felt the grip on his forearm tighten. His own arms were strong, but not like this man’s grip. Still, a game of throws wasn’t all strength. It was also wit, and Taleswapper had a bit of that. He let himself slowly flinch under Alvin Miller’s pressure, long before he had forced the man to use his full strength. Then, suddenly, he pulled with all his might in the direction Miller was pushing. Usually that was enough to topple the bigger man, using his own weight against him—but Alvin Miller was ready, pulled the other way, and flung Taleswapper so far that he landed right among the stones that formed the foundation for the missing millstone.

There had been no malice in it, though, just the love of the contest. No sooner was Taleswapper down than Miller was helping him up, asking him if anything was broken.