“Ye know too much,” suddenly put in “hongry Jeb,” who looked as cadaverous and as melancholy as his name might imply.
“I know enough to shut my mouth,” said Harshaw bluffly, “and keep it shut.”
He looked eagerly at “hongry Jeb,” as he threw this out tentatively.
The mountaineer’s face was distinct in the firelight, and he gazed at the leaping flames instead of at the speaker.
“I ain’t able ter afford ter resk it,” said “hongry Jeb.” He made a sudden pass across his jugular toward his left ear, exclaiming “Tchisk!”—the whites of his eyes and the double row of his shining teeth showing as he smiled horribly on Harshaw.
The lawyer turned sick. How could he hope that these moonshiners would jeopardize aught for his sake? He could trust only to himself.
There was some drinking as the evening wore on; the monotony of this proceeding was beguiled by the fact that one of the dogs took a drop occasionally, at the instance of the youngest of the moonshiners—a mere boy of twenty—and Marvin’s son Mose. It was desired that he should extend his fitness as a boon companion by the use of a pipe, but he revolted at fire and distrusted smoke, and displayed much power of shrillness when snatched by the ears and cuffed. He was finally kicked out, to crawl wheezingly under the house, debarred from the hearth-stone which unaccomplished dogs who were not even bibulous, much less smokers, were privileged to enjoy.
But the evening was not convivial. The moonshiners brooded silently as they drank and smoked. Among them, unmolested, Tad sat. He had never been so happy as now, poor fellow. He goggled about and laughed to himself till he fell asleep, his grotesque head dropping to one side, his mouth open, snoring prosperously.
Marvin glanced at him presently. Then he looked at Harshaw, showing his long tobacco-stained teeth as he laughed. “I hearn ye hev all been in a mighty tucker ter know what hed kem o’ Tad, down yander in the flatwoods,” he said. He sat in a slouching posture as he smoked, his legs crossed, his shoulders bent, his head thrust forward. “Lethe Sayles tole me ’bout’n it.”
“Old Griff has nearly lost his mind about Tad,” said Harshaw.