"But, you've got a clean conscience," said Troffater. "If I had that, I wouldn't lay wake o' nights, nor grow hatchet-faced a great 'eal. I see your cheeks don't fall in, and nobuddy would spose by your looks that you had a great grist o' trouble. Wish I could look as cheerful, and had a bit o' your pleasant peace o' mind."
"But you have forgotten one of my questions; I asked if you knew any ill of George Ludlow," said Fabens.
"All I know, I can tell perty quick," said Troffater, and cooked his quid, and spit through his teeth. "What do you know, Tilly?" asked Fabens.
"I know an awful cuss hangs over the feller," said Troffater.
"How you talk! Curse! what do you mean?" asked Fabens, with emotion, and a searching glance of his large and loving eye: "George Ludlow under a curse?"
"Yis, under a cuss, an' may it please your honor," said Troffater.
"Who pronounced it?" asked Fabens.
"Scriptur!" said Troffater, drawing down his monkey brows over his little, black-and-blue eyes, and looking wise as a magistrate. "Scriptur pernounced the cuss."
"The Scripture!" exclaimed Fabens. "The Scripture pronounced a curse!
What do you mean? What does the Scripture say to condemn George
Ludlow?"
"A good 'eal, I guess," said Troffater. "The Scripture says—'Woe unto him that all men speak well of;' and George Ludlow is the man!"