en I
waked Mart up an' told him mother heard somethin' bumpin' against the
boat, an' I reckoned it was a swimmin' tree. Mart was sleepy an' he said
he reckoned it was. Then I turned over an' went to sleep again. When we
got out this mornin', the cable was broke loose an' the boat swum off.
We s'pose," here he paused and looked gravely at his brother, who as
gravely nodded his head, "we s'pose the cable pulled loose somehow."

"It was cut in two," said I.

The ferryman screwed his head around on his neck as though he had not
heard correctly. "Did you say 'cut in two'?" he repeated.

"Yes," said I, "cut in two. That cable was cut in two."

The man began to rub his chin with his hand. "I reckon not, Quiller," he
said. "I reckon there ain't no person ornery enough to do that."

"It might be," piped the old woman, thrusting in. "There's been sich.
Oncet, a long time ago, when your pap was a boy, goin' girlin' some,
about when he begun a settin' up to me, a feller stole the ferryboat,
but he was a terrible gallus feller."

"Granny," said Ump, "the devil ain't dead by a long shot. There is
rapscallions lickin' plates over the Valley that's meaner than
gar-broth. They could show the Old Scratch tricks that would make his
eyes stick out so you could knock 'em off with a clapboard."

Danel protested. He pointed out that neither he nor his brother had ever
done any man a wrong, and therefore no man would wrong them. It was one
of those rules which children discover are strangely not true. He said
the ferry was for the good of all, and therefore all would preserve
rather than injure that good. Another wise saw, verbally sound, but
going to pieces under the pitiless logic of fact.

This man, who had spent his life as one might spend it grinding at a
mill, now, when he came to reckon with the natures of men, did it like a
child. Ump cut him short. "Danel," he said, "you talk like a
meetin'-house. Old Christian cut that cable with a cold chisel, an'
Black Malan or Peppers stole your boat. They have nothing against you.
They wanted to stop us from crossin' with these cattle, an' I guess
they've done it."

Then he turned to me. The vapourings of the ferryman were of no
importance. "Quiller," he said, "we're in the devil's own mess. What do
you think about it?"

"I don't know," I answered; "what does Jud think?"

The face of the giant was covered with perspiration standing in beads.
He clenched his hands and clamped his wet