"Down off there is where the foxes live," said Lou. "One night I went with pa to run them, and we galloped all round here, and when we got home, just about day, my clothes were torn nearly all to pieces; but it was such fun; and when old Bob got close to the fox and bellowed, it seemed like he was beatin' his paw on my heart. And away off yander, the hill-side opened and music poured out, and father reached over and put his hand on my head and we listened."
"It is music," said Jim, "but the horn blowed by old Satan may be made outen silver."
"But, Mr. Reverend," Mrs. Mayfield spoke up, "you surely don't object to the enjoyment of a harmless adventure."
"No, ma'm. The Lord wants us to enjoy ourselves, but we should not jump on the hoss of pleasure and gallop too fur away from the gospel of truth."
Kintchin ducked his woolly head. "Keep on foolin' roun' an' dis yere white man call up mourners," he declared. "De gospel it all right, bof in de dark an' de light o' de moon; but you keep on foolin' wid it an'
follerin' it an' you gwine lose yo' min'. I knows whut I talkin' erbout.
You got ter come ter de 'clusion dat de Lawd knows best an' not pry too fur inter his erfairs. De Book say suthin' 'bout eat all you want an'
take er drink once in er while fur ter-morrer you ain't gwine be yere."
"Does the Book say anything about shooting craps?" Tom inquired.
"Now, Mr. Tom, whut put dat inter yo' head? Book doan come out p'intedly an' say you shan't."
"They cast lots for His garments," the preacher spoke, and Kintchin replied:
"Oh, w'en you fling de Book down on me too hard, I jest hatter squirm, dat's all. Ef I had ernudder quarter I could open up er 'skussion dat--"
"You'll not get it," said Jim.
"Dat ends it. Oh, I likes preachers--likes ter yere 'em talk, but I ain't nebber got no money outen one yit. Da all time talk erbout gib whut you got ter de po' an' foller on, an' da follers all right; but I ain't seen 'em gibbin' nuthin'."
"They give to the spirit, Kintchin," remarked Mrs. Mayfield.
"Yas'm. But sometimes I'd leetle ruther da give ter de pocket.
Howsomedever, I mustn't go too fur wid dis man. He's er preacher, but he er Starbuck an' he w'ar me out ef I push him too fur."
"Now, Kintchin," said the preacher, "you know you couldn't provoke me into strikin' you. Don't you?"
"Yas, suh, I feels it; still I's er little skeered o' you. An' whut you gwine gimme caze I skeered? Ain't it wuth er quarter ter be skeered like I is? Huh?"
"Here," replied Jim, giving him a piece of money. "It's worth a quarter to see Satan play his pranks."
A turn in the road, and there was a river, narrow, deep and as blue as the sky. Wild spice bushes, shedding a sweet perfume, grew upon the steep banks, and far below they saw a black bass leap to gulp a mouthful of the sun. The hills stretched away, purple, blue, green; and through the air shot a red bird, lightening from a cloud of flowers. A gaudy, wild dragon, zouave-arrayed, stood guard over a violet nodding beside a rock, and the milk-maidish white clover trembled in fear of the lust-looking strawberry. Bold upon a high rock, with a fish in his claw, sat a defiant eagle, and straight down the river flew a sand-hill crane, like a fragment of gray mist.
They met a young fellow, carrying a tea-cup in his hand, with hair that looked like hackled flax and with a grin that invited the confidence of all mankind. It was Mose Blake, known to neighborhood fame as the stutterer. He halted and attempted to say something, but Kintchin drove on, muttering that he had no time for words that a fellow chewed all to pieces. The boy tried to shout his defiance, but "you are a--a--a f--f--f--," was all he could utter and even this was forestalled by Kintchin, who called back at him: "Oh, we knows all erbout dat."
The road dipped down, turned, and they drove upon a ferry-boat, a mere platform of rude plank and propelled by two gaunt men. On the other shore they drove along still keeping close to the river. A country boy hailed them, but without heeding him Kintchin remarked: "Dat's Laz Spencer, an' he takin' dat meal bag home somewhar ter borry suthin'
else. Ef he wuz ter go ter heben an' foun' dat he couldn't borry some angel's harp, he wouldn't stay dar. I 'spize ter see er pusson all de time wantin' suthin'."
"You don't borrow, do you?" Tom asked, and he answered:
"Who, me? No, suh. I earns all I gits--ef not befo', afterwards. Jest ez sho ez er pusson gibs me suthin' I gwine earn it."
Turning off from the river and entering upon a piece of level ground, they came to the post-office, an old log house with gable end toward the road. In an inclosure a number of tow-headed boys were trying to ride a calf. In the road a child, not more than able to toddle, was throwing stones at a blowing old goose.
Kintchin tied his horse to a "swinging limb," and the ladies were assisted to the ground. Tom conducted them into the post-office, a store wherein the merchant had for sale snuff, red calico, brown jeans, plug tobacco, cast iron plow points, nails and cove oysters. The post-master came forward dragging after him two splint-bottom chairs.
"Set down," he said. "Never seed you befo', but I'm glad to see you now."
Tom inquired if there were anything in the office for Mrs. Mary Mayfield or himself, calling his name; and the post-master looked at him closely and asked: "Any kin to old Zeb Elliot that used to sell mink skins?"
"No, I have no relatives in this part of the country."
"Wall, old Zeb was a good deal of a man."
"That may be, but he was no relation of mine."
"Had long red whiskers and his hair stood up straight--seed him climb a tree one night and shake a coon out as slick as a whistle. Had a dog named Tige--feller pizened him. Where you frum?"
"Nashville. I wish you'd look--"
"Yes, that's what I'm goin' to do. And ain't this Jasper Starbuck's daughter? I thought so," he added when Lou nodded at him. "I've knowed Jasper a long time, but folks don't git round a visitin' now like they uster. Never seed yo' father drunk in my life--swear it's a fact; never did. I'll bet he kin whup a ground-hog as big as he is. And I'll sw'ar, ain't this little Jimmie Starbuck?"
"My name is Jim and I am a Starbuck," the preacher answered.
"Thought I know'd you. Ah, hah, and they tell me you air preachin' the gospel now. Which one o' the gospels air you preachin', Luke or John?
Wall, no diffunce, either of 'em is good enough, I reckon. I never tried to preach."
"I wish you'd try to look over your stock of mail matter," said Tom.
"I'll do that, too. What was the other name. Mayfield? Well, that's a familiar name to me. My grandmother was a Mayfield--no, Mayhew. Putty nigh the same anyhow. You air expectin' a letter, I reckon."
"Yes, if you please."
"From yo' husband? No, you ain't married, of co'se. And I want to tell you that you may have any letter in this shop, don't make no odds who it's writ to. I'm allus glad to have folks come. I set here day after day, by myself a good deal of the time, and I like comp'ny, too; uster be a mighty hand to go round, but sorter give it up atter I got busy.
Now, let me see whar I put them letters." He scratched his head. "I had 'em yistidy, I'm certain of that." He went behind his counter, shook a barrel, looked into it--looked into a cracker box, into a crock jar, and brought out a handful of letters. "Oh, I know'd they was here somewhar,"
he said. "Elliott, Mayfield," he repeated, looking at the letters.
"Here's one for Endiott--'bout as near as I can come to you, young feller. Will that do?"
"Of course not," Tom answered. "It isn't for me."
"Near enough, ain't it. Oughtn't to blame a man when he's doin' the best he can. I can't hit at you at all, Mrs. Mayfield. Ain't nuthin' here that sounds like you."
"Really," she said, "this is a remarkable post-office."
"One of the best, ma'm," replied the post-master. "Come in, Squire," he called as a man, leading a hound, appeared at the door.
"I want a pint," said the Squire.
"All right--let me look at yo' dog." He examined the hound's teeth, punched him in the side to catch his tone, pronounced his yelp of good note, and gave the Squire a pint of liquor.
"About as peculiar case of barter as I ever saw," said Tom when the Squire withdrew with his purchase.
"Yas, mout seem so, but a good artickle of hound is a currency at this sto'."
"I heard that I might find peculiar people in this part of the country,"