didn't larrup him for
fetchin' the stock off, but for layin' up there in jail an' lettin' his
crap spile. Well, that frailin' made a good Christian of pa. He j'ined
the church, an' would 'a' been a preacher, but ma wouldn't let him. She
allowed they'd be too much gaddin' about, an' maybe a little too much
honeyin' up wi' the sisterin'. 'No,' says she, 'ef you want to do good
prayin', pray whilst you're ploughin'. I'll look arter the hoein'
myself,' says she."

Mr. Sanders was not regarded as a dangerous man in his cups, but on one
well-remembered occasion he had fired into a crowd of men who were
inclined to be too familiar, and since that day he had been given a wide
berth when he took a seat on the court-house steps and began to recite
his family history. While Nan stood there, Mr. Sanders drew a pistol
from his pocket, and, smiling blandly, began to flourish it around. As
he did so, Gabriel Tolliver sprang into the street and ran rapidly
toward him. Some one in the crowd uttered a cry of warning. Seized by
some blind impulse Nan ran after Gabriel. Francis Bethune caught her
arm as she ran by him, but she wrenched herself from his grasp, and ran
faster than ever.

"Stand back there!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders in an angry voice, raising his
pistol. For one brief moment, the spectators thought that Gabriel was
doomed, for he went on without wavering. But he was really in no danger.
Mr. Sanders had mistaken him for some of the young men who had been
taunting him as they stood at a safe distance. But when he saw who it
was, he replaced the pistol in his pocket, remarking, "You ought to hang
out your sign, Gabe. Ef I hadn't 'a' had on my furseein' specks, I'm
afear'd I'd a plugged you."

At that moment Nan arrived on the scene, her anger at white heat. She
caught her breath, and then stood looking at Mr. Sanders, with eyes that
fairly blazed with scorn and anger. "Ef looks'd burn, honey, they
wouldn't be a cinder left of me," said Mr. Sanders, moving uneasily.
"Arter she's through wi' me, Gabriel, plant me in a shady place, an'
make old Tar-Baby thar," indicating Tasma Tid, who had followed
Nan--"make old Tar-Baby thar set on my grave, an' warm it up once in
awhile. I leave you my Sunday shirts wi' the frills on 'em, Gabriel, an'
my Sunday boots wi' the red tops; an' have a piece put in the Malvern
paper, statin' that I was one of the most populous and public-sperreted
citizens of the county. An' tell how I went about kill