“Yes,” he said a little abstractedly, as if listening for some interruption, “at Ten Mile Crossing.”
“Why, that's two miles away.”
“I reckon.”
“Then you don't live here—on the clearing?”
“No. I b'long to the mill at 'Ten Mile.'”
“You were on your way home?”
“No,” he hesitated, looking at his pipe; “I kinder meander round here at this time, when Johnson's away, to see if everything's goin' straight.”
“I see—you're a friend of the family.”
“'Deed no!” He stopped, laughed, looked confused, and added, apparently to his pipe, “That is, a sorter friend. Not much. SHE”—he lowered his voice as if that potential personality filled the whole cabin—“wouldn't like it.”
“Then at night, when Johnson's away, you do sentry duty round the house?”