"If had got little Quiller drownded," he began, "then the old women
couldn't a said when he growed up, 'Eh, little Quiller didn't amount to
much after all. I said he wouldn't come to no good when I used to see
him goin' by runnin' his horse.' An' when he got whiskers to growin' on
his jaw, flat-nose niggers fishin' along the creek couldn't a' cussed
an' said, 'There goes old skinflint Quiller. I wish he couldn't swallow
till he give me half his land.' An' when he got old an' wobbly on his
legs, tow-headed brats a-waitin' for his money couldn't a-p'inted their
fingers at him an' said, 'Ma, how old's grandpap?' An' when he died,
nobody could a wrote on his tombstone, 'He robbed the poor an' he
cheated the rich, an' he's gone to hell with the balance a' sich.'"

Routed in his second man[oe]uvre, Roy flung a final sally with a sort of
servile abandon. "You're a queer lot," he said. "Marks an' that
club-footed Malan comes along away before day an' wants their breakfast,
an' gits it, an' lights out like the devil was a-follerin' 'em. An' when
I asked 'em what they'd been doin', they up an' says they'd been fixin'
lay-overs to ketch meddlers an' make fiddlers' wives ask questions. An'
then along come you all a-lookin' like hell an' shyin' at questions."

We took the information with no sign, although it confirmed our theory
about the ferry. Ump turned gravely to the tavern-keeper.

"I'll clear it all up for you slick as a whistle." Then he arose and
pressed his fingers against the tavern-keeper's chest. "Roy," he said,
"this is the marrow out of that bone. We're the meddlers that they
didn't ketch, an' you're the fiddler's wife."

The laughter sent the tavern-keeper flying from the field. We borrowed
some odd pieces of clothing, got the lantern, and went down to the
stable to groom our horses.

A man might travel about quite as untidy as Nebuchadnezzar when events
were jamming him, but his horse was rubbed and cleaned if the heavens
tumbled. I held the lantern, an old iron frame with glass sides, while
Jud and Ump curried the horses, rubbing the dust out of their hair, and
washing their eyes and nostrils.

We were speculating on the mission of the blacksmith, and the
destination of Parson Peppers, of whose singing I had told, when the
talk came finally to Twiggs.

"I'd give a purty," said Ump, "to know what word that devil was
carryin'."

"Quiller had a chance to find out," answered Jud, "an' he shied away
from it