"Wal, I kinder 'low you-uns is all right, but thar's others might not think so. S'pose you know what moonshine is?"
"Yes; it is illicitly distilled whiskey."
She nodded.
"That's right. Wal, ther revenues say thar's moonshine made round these parts. They come round ev'ry little while to spy an' cotch ther folks that makes it."
"By revenues you mean the officers of the government?"
"Wal, they may be officers, but they're a difrrunt kind than Jock Hawkins."
"Who is Jock Hawkins?"
"He's ther sheriff down to ther cove. Jock Hawkins knows better'n to come snoopin' 'round, an' he's down on revenues ther same as ther rest o' us is."
"Then you do not like the revenue officers?"
"Like 'em!" cried the girl, starting up, her eyes seeming to blaze in the dusky twilight. "I hate 'em wuss'n pizen! An' I've got good cause fer hatin' 'em."