“Fine mill,” says I.
“You bet,” says Binney. “There hain’t many mills like that.”
“It’s a m-m-money-maker,” says Mark, “when it’s run r-right.” That was Mark, always thinking about the practical end of it.
“Hey!” says Tallow. “What was that?”
“What?” says I.
“I thought I seen something flash down there—like a match or a candle or somethin’.”
“G’wan!” says Binney. “Firefly, most likely.”
“’Twan’t, neither, no firefly,” says he. “There—look!”
Sure as shooting, there was some kind of a light, but it didn’t look like it was on the ground. It looked sort of up in the air—as if it was somewheres up toward the top of the mill.
“It’s flyin’,” says Binney.