"Oh, yeh," interposed the glib Jack; "an' he said ez he couldn't abide sech jokes."
"Shucks!" cried the filial Wyatt. "Dad war full fresky himself in his young days; I hev hearn his old frien's say so."
"I tried ter slick things over," said the diplomatic Jack. "I 'lowed young folks war giddy by nature. I 'lowed 't war jes a flash o' fun. An' he say: 'Flash o' fun be consarned! My son is more like a flash o' lightning; ez suddint an' mischeevious an' totally ondesirable.'"
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 foot-hold 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 day-break, Watt?" he asked, fixing the young fellow with a stern eye.