" The Prophet ignored the insult.
"His mother wants him. She's afeared likely he mout forget, since he was
jes' a boy friendly and needing friends. He's no runt, no triflin'
no-'count, puppy man, like this thing," in the direction whence the
invitation had come, "but tall an' square, an' honourable, near six
foot, an' likely 160 pounds. Not like this little runt thing yeah, but a
real man!"

There was a yell of approval and delight.

"Who all mout yo' friend be?" Buck asked, respectfully, seeing that this
was not a raid, but a visit.

"Jock, suh, Jock Drones, his mammy wants him, suh!"

Buck eyed the visitor keenly for a minute. Someone said they never had
heard of him. Buck, who saw that the visitor was in mind to turn back,
suggested:

"Won't yo' have a cup of coffee, suh? Hit's raw outside to-night, fresh
and mean. Give him a chair, boys! I'm friendly with any man who takes a
message from a mother to her wandering son."

A dozen chairs were snatched out to the stove, and when Parson Rasba had
accepted one, Buck stepped into the kitchen. He found Slip, _alias_ Jock
Drones, standing with beads of sweat on his forehead. No need to ask the
first question; Buck poured out a cup of coffee and said:

"What'll I tell him, Slip?"

"I cayn't go back, Buck!" Slip whimpered. "Hit's a hanging crime!"

"Something may have changed," Buck suggested.

"No, suh, I've heard. Hit were my bullet--I've heard. Hit's a trial, an'
hit's--hit's hanging!"

"Sh-h! Not so loud!" Buck warned. "If it's lawyer money you need?"

"I got 'leven hundred, an' a trial lawyer'll cost only a thousand, Buck!
Yo's a friend--Lawse! I'd shore like to talk to him. He's no detector,
Parson Rasba yain't. Why, he's be'n right into a stillhouse, drunk the
moonshine--an' no revenue hearn of hit, the way some feared. My sister
wrote me. I want to talk to him, Buck, but--but not let them outside
know."

"I'll fix it," Buck promised, carrying out steaming coffee, a plate of
sandwiches, and two big oranges for the parson.

He returned, filled up the trays for the others, and took them out. Soon
the crowd were sitting around, or leaning against the heavy crap table,
talking and listening.

"Yo' come way down from the mountangs to find a mammy's boy?" someone
asked, his tone showing better than his words how well he understood the
sacrifice of that journey.

"Hit's seo," Rasba nodded. "I'm partly to blame, myse'f, for his coming
down. I was a mountain