waters, as they leaped over the
boulders, until it had accomplished its mission. For here in Prather's
Mill Road burned the slow fires that kept the Government officials in
Atlanta at a white heat. They were burning now. If one of the officials
could have crawled to the edge of the gorge, where everything seemed
dwarfed by the towering walls of rook and the black abyss from which
they sprang, he would have seen small fitful sparks of flame glowing at
intervals upon the bosom of the deeper and blacker night below. These
were the fires that all the power and ingenuity of the Government
failed to smother, but they were now blown out one after another by the
blasts from Sis Poteet's horn.

The news that was wafted down into the depths of Prather's Mill Road
upon the wings of the wind was not at all alarming. On the contrary, it
was received by the grimy watchers at the stills with considerable
hilarity. To the most of them it merely furnished an excuse for a
week's holiday, including trips to both Gullettsville and Villa Ray.
Freely interpreted, it ran thus: "Friends and fellow-citizens: this is
to inform you that Hog Mountain is to be raided by the revenue men by
way of Teague Poteet's. Let us hear from you at once." There was
neither alarm nor hurry, but the fires were put out quickly, because
that was the first thing to be done.

Teague Poteet owned and managed two stills. He was looking after some
"doublings" when the notes of the horn dropped down into the gorge. He
paused, and listened, and smiled. Uncle Jake Norris, who had come to
have his jug filled, was in the act of taking a dram, but he waited,
balancing the tin cup in the palm of his hand. Tip Watson was telling
one of his stories to the two little boys who accompanied Uncle Jake,
but he never ended it.

"Sis talks right out in meetin'," said Teague, after waiting to be sure
there was no postscript to the message.

"What's the row, Teague?" asked Uncle Jake, swallowing his dram.

"'Nother raid comin' right in front er my door," Teague explained, "an'
I reckon in reason I oughter be home when they go past. They use to be
a kinder coolness betweenst me an' them revenue fellers, but we went to
work an' patched it up."

Tip Watson appeared to be so overjoyed that he went through all the
forms of a cotillon dance, imitating a fiddle, calling the figures, and
giving his hand to imaginary partners. The boys fairly screamed with
laughter at this exhibition, and