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Updated: May 23, 2025
It was still early when they reached Jim Coggin's home; the windows and doors were open to let out the dust, for his mother was just beginning to sweep. She had pushed aside the table, when her eyes suddenly distended with surprise as they fell upon a silk handkerchief lying on the floor beside it.
Every man they met stopped them to repeat the story that Coggin's boy had told somebody that it was his father who had robbed the traveler, and hid the empty pocket-book in the chinking of the church wall. No one knew who had set this report in circulation, but a blacksmith said he heard it first from a man named Brierwood, who had stopped at his shop to have his horse shod.
Alf's heart sank sank like lead when Jim, suddenly remembering the promised "good word" to the witches, piped out, "I war tole not ter tell who teched it, 'kase my dad didn't want nobody ter know 'twar hid thar." John Coggin's face was rigid and gray. "The Lord hev forsook me!" he cried. "An' all my chillen hev turned liars tergether." Then he made a great effort to control himself.
He caught sight of the end of little Jim Coggin's comforter flaunting out through the "chinking," as the mountaineers call the series of short slats which are set diagonally in the spaces between the logs of the walls, and on which the clay is thickly daubed. This work had been badly done, and in many places the daubing had fallen away.
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