; again he had put his heel six inches above his head
on a barn door, and, any time, he could wiggle one ear or both or
whistle on his thumb. At every lodging place he had left a feeling
of dread and relief as well as a perennial topic of conversation.
At every inn he added something to his stock of fat and happiness.
Then, often, he seemed to be overloaded with the latter and would
sit and shake his head and roar with laughter, now and then giving
out a wild yell. He had a story of which no one had ever heard the
finish. He began it often, but, somehow, never got to the end. He
always clung to the lapel of his hearer's coat as if in fear of
losing him, and never tried his tale but once on the same pair of
ears. Having got his inspiration he went in quest of his hearer,
and having hitched him, as it were, by laying hold of his elbow or
coat collar, began the tale. It was like pouring molasses on a
level place--it moved slowly and spread and got nowhere in
particular. At first his manner was slow, dignified, and
confidential, changing to fit his emotion. He whispered, he
shouted, he laughed, he looked sorrowful, he nudged the stranger in
his abdomen, he glared upon him, eye close to eye, he shook him by
the shoulder, and slowly wore him out. Some endured long and were
patient, but soon or late all began to back and dodge, and finally
broke away, and seeing the hand of the narrator reach for them,
dodged quickly and, being pursued, ran. Often this odd chase took
them around trees and stumps and buildings, the stranger escaping,
frequently, through some friendly door which he could lock or hold
fast. Then Thurst, knocking loudly, gave out a wild yell or two,
peered in at the nearest window, and came at last to his chair,
sorrowful and much out of breath, his tale unfinished. There was
in the man a saving element of good nature, and no one ever got
angry with him. At each new attempt be showed a grimmer
determination to finish, but even there, in a land of strong and
patient men, not one, they used to say, had ever the endurance to
hear the end of that unfinished tale.

It was not easy to dispose of cattle in the southern counties that
year, but they found a better market as they bore west, and were
across the border of Ohio when the last of the drove were sold.
That done, Trove and Thurst Tilly took the main road to Cleveland,
whence they were to return home by steamboat.

It led them into woods and by stum