“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.
“Say, bub, how d’ye know the grant war ever put hyar?”
“Kase,” responded Rufe, more amicably, “I seen it put hyar - right yander.”
He indicated the spot where the paper lay, according to Byers, when it was discovered.
Birt could hardly breathe. His anxieties, his hopes, his fears, seemed a pursuing pack before which he was almost spent. He panted like a hunted creature. Tennessee was swinging herself to and fro, holding by his hand. Sometimes she caught at Towse’s unlovely ear, as he sat close by with his tongue lolled out and an attentive air, as if he were assisting at the discussion.
“Who put it thar, bub?” demanded Perkins.
It would not have surprised Birt, so perverse had been the course of events, if Rufe had accused him on the spot.
“Pig-wigs Griggs,” replied Rufe, unexpectedly.
A glance of intelligence passed between the men.