There was no need of either fear or flight.
“How air ye, I’on Pyrite!” cried Birt cheerfully.
The martyr’s countenance changed.
“Ye never done me right ’bout that thar mine, Birt Dicey,” Nate said reproachfully. “Ye mus’ hev knowed from the fust ez them thar rocks war good fur nuthin’.”
“Ye air the deceivinest sandy-headed Pyrite that ever war on the top o’ this mounting, an’ ye knows it,” Birt retorted in high good humor; “an’ ef it war wuth my while I’d gin ye a old-fashion larrupin’ jes’ ter pay ye fur the trick ez ye played on me. But I ain’t keerin’ fur that, now. Stan’ back thar, Tennessee!”
Since then, Tennessee, always preserving the influence she wielded that memorable night, has grown to be a woman - never pretty, but, as her brother still stoutly avers, “powerful peart.”