“You see, Grover Cleveland,” he said as they came up to the hacked log, “he was too mad to see straight and he lit on the wrong tree.”
“Why gran’daddy, he was walkin’ in his sleep!”
“Sure ’nough; gran’daddy plumb forgot that part of the story”—he sorted some chips about with the toe of his boot—“but, Grover Cleveland, don’t you never go to actin’ that spiteful, sleepin’ or wakin’.”
Two days afterward Sal stood sampling a pile of choice limber-twigs while her master sat on the Ledbetter porch. It is difficult to describe the expression of his hard old face. Its obduracy was there but less marked; as if a thin lava-flow of astonishment had hardened upon his features.
“That thar feller,” he said, “’lowed me fo’teen hundred dollars for the curly wa’nut and yesterday evening I druv over to the cou’t-house and—nary man’s got a nickel’s worth of claim on my farm now.”
Colonel Ledbetter grabbed his hand and shook it heartily.
“I certainly am glad, Sam,” he said, “I certainly am.”
“Looks like you think as you say, Jake.” The old fellow hoisted himself on his feet and, after the distortions of figure necessary to get possession of his pocket-book, said: “Here’s the thirty dollars you give me for the curly and here’s another thirty for the log that got hacked.” Without another word he stumped clumsily out to his wagon, Colonel Ledbetter following in a neighbourly way.
“That’s a fine heifer you’ve got tied behind, Sam; tollable much Holstein in her, ain’t there?”
“Looks like thar is; g’long!”