Suddenly Marvin spoke: “My wife ’lows ez how ye defended Mink Lorey when he war tried.”
“I did,” said Harshaw jauntily.
“Waal, did this hyar gal,—this Lethe Sayles, ez lives yander at the t’other eend o’ the county,—did she up an’ tell in court ennything ’bout me?”
Harshaw was not a truthful man for conscience’ sake; but in the course of his practice he had had occasion to remark the inherent capacity of the truth for prevailing. He was far too acute to prevaricate.
“Yes,” he said, sticking two fingers into his vest-pocket and swinging the leg he had crossed over the other, “she swore that you were moonshining and told her so; she had told me as much before. We wanted to prove that Mink was drunk, and had somewhere to get whiskey besides the bonded still. We couldn’t get in all the evidence, though.”
The fire snapped and sparkled and flared. The pendent sponge-like masses of soot clinging to the chimney continually wavered in the strong current of air; now and then fire was communicated to it, and a dull emblazonment of sparks would trace some mysterious characters, dying out when half realized.
Harshaw could but see that his frankness had produced its impression: there was a troublous cast in all the stolid countenances around the hearth; but he was glad to be regarded as a problem as well as a danger.
“In the name o’ Gawd,” exclaimed Marvin irritably, “why did ye kem hyar ter this hyar place fur? Ain’t Shaftesville big enough ter hold ye?”
Harshaw repeated the account of himself which he had already given to Mrs. Marvin. “I ain’t ready to go yet,” he remarked. “But when your wife thought I wanted to, by George, she got down the gun and said I shouldn’t.”