John Claverhouse was a moon-faced man. You knowthe kind， cheek-bones wide apart， chin and foreheadmelting into the cheeks to complete the perfect round，and the nose， broad and pudgy， equidistant from thecircumference， flattened against the very centre of theface like a dough-ball upon the ceiling. Perhaps that iswhy I hated him， for truly he had become an offense tomy eyes， and I believed the earth to be cumbered with hispresence. Perhaps my mother may have been superstitiousof the moon and looked upon it over the wrong shoulderat the wrong time.
Be that as it may， I hated John Claverhouse. Not that hehad done me what society would consider a wrong or anill turn. Far from it. The evil was of a deeper， subtler sort；so elusive， so intangible， as to defy clear， definite analysisin words. We all experience such things at some periodin our lives. For the first time we see a certain individual，one who the very instant before we did not dream existed；and yet， at the first moment of meeting， we say： “I do notlike that man.” Why do we not like him？ Ah， we do notknow why； we know only that we do not. We have taken adislike， that is all. And so I with John Claverhouse.
What right had such a man to be happy？ Yet he was anoptimist. He was always gleeful and laughing. All thingswere always all right， curse him！ Ah how it grated on mysoul that he should be so happy！ Other men could laugh，and it did not bother me. I even used to laugh myself—before I met John Claverhouse.
But his laugh！ It irritated me， maddened me， as nothingelse under the sun could irritate or madden me. It hauntedme， gripped hold of me， and would not let me go. It wasa huge， Gargantuan laugh. Waking or sleeping it wasalways with me， whirring and jarring across my heartstringslike an enormous rasp. At break of day it camewhooping across the fields to spoil my pleasant morningrevery. Under the aching noonday glare， when the greenthings drooped and the birds withdrew to the depths ofthe forest， and all nature drowsed， his great “Ha！ ha！” and“Ho！ ho！” rose up to the sky and challenged the sun. Andat black midnight， from the lonely cross-roads where heturned from town into his own place， came his plagueycachinnations to rouse me from my sleep and make mewrithe and clench my nails into my palms.
I went forth privily in the night-time， and turned hiscattle into his fields， and in the morning heard his whoopinglaugh as he drove them out again. “It is nothing，” he said；“the poor， dumb beasties are not to be blamed for strayinginto fatter pastures.”
He had a dog he called “Mars，” a big， splendid brute，part deer-hound and part blood-hound， and resemblingboth. Mars was a great delight to him， and they werealways together. But I bided my time， and one day， whenopportunity was ripe， lured the animal away and settledfor him with strychnine and beefsteak. It made positivelyno impression on John Claverhouse. His laugh was ashearty and frequent as ever， and his face as much like thefull moon as it always had been.
Then I set fire to his haystacks and his barn. But thenext morning， being Sunday， he went forth blithe andcheerful.
“Where are you going？” I asked him， as he went by thecross-roads.
“Trout，” he said， and his face beamed like a full moon. “Ijust dote on trout.”
Was there ever such an impossible man！ His wholeharvest had gone up in his haystacks and barn. It wasuninsured， I knew. And yet， in the face of famine and therigorous winter， he went out gayly in quest of a mess oftrout， forsooth， because he “doted” on them！ Had gloombut rested， no matter how lightly， on his brow， or had hisbovine countenance grown long and serious and less likethe moon， or had he removed that smile but once from offhis face， I am sure I could have forgiven him for existing.
But no. he grew only more cheerful under misfortune.
I insulted him. He looked at me in slow and smilingsurprise.
“I fight you？ Why？” he asked slowly. And then he laughed.
“You are so funny！ Ho！ ho！ You’ll be the death of me！ He！
he！ he！ Oh！ Ho！ ho！ ho！”
What would you？ It was past endurance. By the bloodof Judas， how I hated him！ Then there was that name—Claverhouse！ What a name！ Wasn’t it absurd？ Claverhouse！
Merciful heaven， WHY Claverhouse？ Again and again Iasked myself that question. I should not have minded Smith，or Brown， or Jones—but CLAVERHOUSE！ I leave it toyou. Repeat it to yourself—Claverhouse. Just listen to theridiculous sound of it—Claverhouse！ Should a man live withsuch a name？ I ask of you. “No，” you say. And “No” said I.
But I bethought me of his mortgage. What of his cropsand barn destroyed， I knew he would be unable to meetit. So I got a shrewd， close-mouthed， tight-fisted moneylenderto get the mortgage transferred to him. I did notappear but through this agent I forced the foreclosure， andbut few days （no more， believe me， than the law allowed）were given John Claverhouse to remove his goods andchattels from the premises. Then I strolled down to seehow he took it， for he had lived there upward of twentyyears. But he met me with his saucer-eyes twinkling， andthe light glowing and spreading in his face till it was as afull-risen moon.
“Ha！ ha！ ha！” he laughed. “The funniest tike， thatyoungster of mine！ Did you ever hear the like？ Let me tellyou. He was down playing by the edge of the river when apiece of the bank caved in and splashed him. ‘O papa！’ hecried； ‘a great big puddle flewed up and hit me.’”
He stopped and waited for me to join him in his infernalglee.
“I don’t see any laugh in it，” I said shortly， and I knowmy face went sour.
