boun' he comes, an' more'n that, I be boun' a whole
passel er gals an' boys'll foller Babe home."

"In giner'lly," said Grandsir Hightower, "I hate for to make remarks
'bout folks when they hain't settin' whar they kin hear me, but that ar
Tuck Peevy is got a mighty bad eye. I hearn 'im a-quollin' wi' one er
them Simmons boys las' Sunday gone wuz a week, an' I tell you he's got
the Ole Boy in 'im. An' his appetite's wuss'n his eye."

"Well," said Mrs. Hightower, "nobody 'roun' here don't begrudge him his
vittles, I reckon."

"Oh, by no means--by no manner er means," said the old man, suddenly
remembering the presence of Chichester. "Yit they oughter be reason in
all things; that's what I say--reason in all things, espeshually when
hit comes to gormandizin'."

The evident seriousness of the old man was very comical. He seemed to be
possessed by the unreasonable economy that not infrequently seizes on
old age.

"They hain't no begrudgin' 'roun' here," he went on. "Lord! ef I'd 'a'
bin a-begrudgin' I'd 'a' thes natchally bin e't up wi' begrudges. What
wer' the word the poor creetur sent to Babe?"

Chichester repeated the brief and apparently uninteresting message, and
Grandsir Hightower groaned dismally.

"I dunner what sot him so ag'in' Tuck Peevy," said Abe, laughing.
"Tuck's e'en about the peartest chap in the settlement, an' a mighty
handy man, put him whar you will."

"Why, Aberham!" exclaimed the old man, "you go on like a man what's done
gone an' took leave of his sev'm senses. You dunner what sot me ag'in'
the poor creetur? Why, time an' time ag'in I've tol' you it's his
ongodly hankerin' atter the flesh-pots. The Bible's ag'in' it, an' I'm
ag'in' it. Wharbouts is it put down that a man is ever foun' grace in
the cubberd?"

"Well, I lay a man that works is boun' ter eat," said Abe.

"Oh, _I_ hain't no 'count--_I_ can't work," said the old man, his wrath,
which had been wrought to a high pitch, suddenly taking the shape of
plaintive humility. "Yit 'tain't for long. _I'll_ soon be out'n the way,
Aberham."

"Shoo!" said Abe, placing his hand affectionately on the old man's
shoulder. "You er mighty nigh as spry as a kitten. Babe, honey, fill
your grandsir's pipe. He's a-missin' his mornin' smoke."

Soothed by his pipe, the old man seemed to forget the existence of Tuck
Peevy, and his name came up for discussion no more.

But Chichester, being a man of quick perceptions, gathered from the
animosity of