Looking around, I saw Old Toombs, his great solid figure mounted high on the wagon seat, the reins held fast in the fingers of one hand. I was struck by the strange expression in his face—a sort of grim exaltation. As I stepped aside he burst out in a loud, shrill, cackling laugh:
“He-he-he—he-he-he—”
I was too astonished to speak at once. Ordinarily when I meet any one in the town road it is in my heart to cry out to him,
“Good morning, friend,” or, “How are you, brother?” but I had no such prompting that day.
“Git in, Grayson,” he said; “git in, git in.”
I climbed up beside him, and he slapped me on the knee with another burst of shrill laughter.
“They thought they had the old man,” he said, starting up his horses. “They thought there weren't no law left in Israel. I showed 'em.”
I cannot convey the bitter triumphancy of his voice.
“You mean the road case?” I asked.
“Road case!” he exploded, “they wan't no road case; they didn't have no road case. I beat 'em. I says to 'em, 'What right hev any o' you on my property? Go round with you,' I says. Oh, I beat 'em. If they'd had their way, they'd 'a' cut through my hedge—the hounds!”