rse cotton apron.

"I reckon he'll be hyar, presently, paw," she suggested in a
high-pitched voice meant to be placating. "I reckon he hain't fared far
away."

The hodden-gray figure of the man turned to his wife and his voice, as
it dropped to conversational pitch, held a surprisingly low and
drawling cadence.

"What needcessity did he hev ter go away a-tall?" came his interrogation.
"He knowed I aimed ter hev him tote thet gryste acrost ther ridge ter
the tub-mill, didn't he? He knows that hits perilous business ter leave
corn like that a-layin' 'round, don't he--_sprouted corn_!"

A flash of poignant anxiety clouded the woman's eyes. Corn sprouted in
the grain before grinding! She knew well enough what that
meant--incrimination in the eyes of the Government--trial, perhaps, and
imprisonment.

"Ye 'lowed a long while since, Lone," she reminded him with a trace of
wistfulness in her voice, "that ye aimed ter quit makin' blockade
licker fer all time. Hit don't pleasure me none ter see ye a-follerin'
hit ergin. Seems like thar's a curse on hit from start ter finish."

"I don't foller hit because I delights in hit," he retorted grimly.
"But what else is thar ter do? I reckon we've got ter live
somehow--hain't we?" For an instant his eyes flared with an upleaping
of rebellion; then he turned again on his heel and roared "Turner--you,
Turner!"

"Ther boy seemed kinderly fagged out when he come in. I reckon he aimed
ter slip off and rest in ther shade somewhars fer a lettle spell afore
ye needed him," volunteered the boy's mother, but the suggestion failed
to mollify the mounting impatience of the father.

"Fagged! What's fagged him? I hain't never disc'arned nothin' puny
about him. He's survigrous enough ter go a-snortin' an' a-stompin' over
ther hills like a yearlin' bull, a-honin' fer battle. He's knowed from
God's Blessin' Creek ter Hell's Holler by ther name of Bear Cat Stacy,
hain't he? Bear Cat Stacy! I'd hate ter take my name from a
varmint--but it pleasures him."

"I don't sca'cely b'lieve he seeks no aimless quarrels," argued the
mother defensively. "Thar hain't no _meanness_ in him. He's jest like
you was, Lone, when ye was twenty a-goin' on twenty-one. He's full o'
sperrit. I reckon Bear Cat jest means thet he's quick-like an' supple."

"Supple! Hell's torment! Whar's he at now? He's jest about a-layin'
somewhar's on his shoulder-blades a-readin' thet everlastin' book
erbout Abe Lincoln--You, Turner!