The reproach obviously struck home, for Wyatt maintained a disconsolate silence for a time. At length, apparently goaded by his thoughts to attempt a defense, he remonstrated:
“Nobody ever war dead less of his own free will. I never elected ter be a harnt. 'Gene Barker hed no right ter nominate me fer the dear departed, nohow.”
One of the uncouth younger fellows, his shoulders laden with a sack of meal, paused on his way from the porch to the trap-door to look up from beneath his burden with a sly grin as he said, “'Gene war wishin' it war true, that's why.”
“'Count o' Minta Elladine Riggs,” gaily chimed in another.
“But 'Gene needn't gredge Watt foothold on this yearth fer sech; she ain't keerin' whether Watt lives or dies,” another contributed to the rough, rallying fun.
But Wyatt was of sensitive fibre. He had flushed angrily; his eyes were alight; a bitter retort was trembling on his lips when one of the elder Barkers, discriminating the elements of an uncontrollable fracas, seized on the alternative.
“Could you-uns sure be back hyar by daybreak, Watt!” he asked, fixing the young fellow with a stern eye.
“No 'spectable ghost roams around arter sun-up,” cried Wyatt, fairly jovial at the prospect of liberation.
“Ye mus' be heedful not ter be viewed,” the senior admonished him.
“I be goin' ter slip about keerful like a reg'lar, stiddy-goin' harnt, an' eavesdrop a bit. It's worth livin' a hard life ter view how a feller's friends will take his demise.”