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"Look-a-hyar, Birt," said the tanner with a solemnity which the boy did not altogether understand, "gin Nate the grant." "I hain't got it," replied Birt, badgered and growing nervous. "Tell him, then, ye never teched it." Birt's impulse was to adopt the word. But he had seen enough of falsehood. He had done with concealment. "I did tech it," he said boldly, "but I hain't got it.
Ye must fling down the warpin'-bars an' twist the spun-truck fur Jacob Smith!" "Look-a-hyar, Sol," said his father gruffly, "'tend ter yerself, an' yer own quar'ls, arter this, will ye!" Then, with a sudden humorous interpretation of the incident, he broke into a guffaw. "I hev lived a consider'ble time in this tantalizin' world, an' ez yit I dunno ez I hev hed any need o' Sol ter pertect me."
All at once his eyes, glancing over his shoulder, lighted on Bayne, who had just come to call on the ladies and now stood at the bottom of the flight of the terrace steps. Clenk drew back with an obvious shock. "Why, look-a-hyar, you ain't Mr. Briscoe!" he exclaimed insistently, as with a desire to reassure himself. His eyes large, light, distended, were starting out of his head.
"Look-a-hyar, Rufe," he exclaimed, excitedly; "how d'ye know ennything 'bout Nate's grant an' whar 't war hid?" Rufe glanced up scornfully, insulted in some occult manner by the question. "How did I know, Birt Dicey? How d'ye know yerse'f?" he retorted. "I knows a heap, ginerally." Perkins, catching the drift of Birt's intention, came to the rescue.
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