the cloth,
with such swift repulsion, that the coroner, habituated to such
matters, gazed at him with a doubtful scrutiny.

"Oh, he looked nowise like that," he exclaimed in a raised, nervous
voice that caught the attention of the crowd outside, and resulted in
a sudden cessation of stir and colloquy, "though it's him, sure
enough! And," with a burst of regret, "he war a mighty pleasant man!"

The coroner, intentionally taking him at a disadvantage, asked
abruptly, "What do you work at mostly?"

Hite turned shortly from the bier. "I farms some," he hesitated; "dad
bein' mos'ly out o' the field, nowadays, agin' so constant."

"What do you work at mostly?" reiterated the official.

Hite divined his suspicion. Some flying rumor had doubtless come to
his ears, how credible, how unimpugnable, the moonshiner could not
tell. Nevertheless, his loyalty to that secret vocation of his had
become a part of his nature, so continuous were its demands upon his
courage, his strategy, his foresight, his industry. It was tantamount
to his instinct of self-defense. He held his head down, with his
excited dark eyes looking up from under his brows at the coroner. But
he would not speak. He would admit naught of what was evidently known.

"Warn't ye afeard he might be a revenuer?" suggested the officer.

"I never war afeard, so ter say, o' one man at a time," Hite ventured.

"Didn't ye think he might take a notion that you were a moonshiner?"

"He never showed no suspicion o' me, noways," replied Hite warily. "We
rid tergether free an' favored. He 'peared a powerful book-l'arned
man,--like no revenuer ever I see."

"Where did you part company?"

Hite sought to identify the spot by description; and then he was
allowed to pass out, his spirits flagging with the ordeal, and with
the knowledge that his connection with the manufacture of brush
whiskey was suspected by the coroner's jury, suggesting an adequate
motive on his part for waylaying a stranger supposed to be of the
revenue force. He felt the dash of the rain in his face as he stood
aside to make way for the "valley man with the lung complaint," who
was passing into the restricted apartment; and despite his whirl of
anxiety and excitement and regret and resentment, he noted with a
touch of surprise the cool unconcern of the man's face and manner,
albeit duly grave and adjusted to the decorums of the melancholy
occasion.

He was sworn, and gave his name as Alan Selwyn. The