“Naw - naw!” exclaimed Tim, despairingly. “He missed his coat this mornin’, bein’ the weather war cooler, an’ then the grant, an’ he sent me arter it. An’ I fund the coat a-hangin’ thar on the peg, whar I hed lef’ it, bein’ ez I furgot it when I went off with Rufe ter look at his chickens, an’ the pocket war empty an’ the paper gone! Nate hev kem ter sarch, too!”
Once more he held out his hand. “Gimme the grant. Nate ’lows ’twar you-uns ez tuk it, bein’ ez I lef’ it hyar.”
Birt flushed angrily. “I’ll say a word ter Nate Griggs!” he declared.
And he pushed past the trembling Tim, and took his way briskly into the tanyard.
There was a vague murmur in the group as he approached, and Nate Griggs came out from its midst, nodding his head threateningly. His hat, thrust far back on his sandy hair, left in bold relief his long, thin face with its small eyes, which seemed now so close together that his glance had the effect of a squint. He scanned Birt narrowly.
This was the first time the two had met since Birt’s ill-starred confidence there by the bark-mill.
“What ails ye, ter ’low ez it air
me
ez hev got yer grant, Nate Griggs?” Birt asked, steadily meeting the accusation.
The excitement had impaired for the moment Nate Griggs’s cunning.