"The hell they do so," countered Jerry. "Aunt Sally Whitmarsh was into our place las' night, an' I jes wish you cud a heard her. I was in the little room off the kitchen a-shavin' an' the door was open atween. An' if Aunt Sally wa'n't a-spittin' out pizen about the neighbors acrost the kitchen stove to mammy, then I don't know a dirty tongue when I hear it. The ugly thing about wimmin is they never say a thing right out an' have done with it, like a man does. They jes set with their hands in their laps an' say a little bit an' leave the rest to the other woman's dirty 'magination. An' my own mammy herse'f hain't much better'n the rest. I don't like wimmin, Judy. There's sumpin' small an' mean an' underhand an' foul about most all of 'em. Uncle Jabez was purty nigh right when he told me they was all harlots. You're the on'y woman I know that's got a man's ways, Judy. You hain't spiled."
The year passed quickly for them both in their delirium of early love. Accident was kind to them and did not thrust upon them with untimely speed the physical results of the sweet intimacy that they enjoyed. So they did not have to hasten their marriage, and the neighbors were deprived of a juicy bit of scandal. In February Jerry procured a license; and one day late in the month they drove over to Clayton and, through the medium of Obe Applestill, local Justice of the Peace, they secured the blessing of the law on their relations. After that Jerry did not rest easy until they were in a home of their own.
In early February Jerry signed a contract with old Hiram Stone.
The house that he was to have was a little two-room frame shanty in a deep hollow between two hills and about half a mile from the main road. The five acres of tobacco ground and the ten acres of corn land that were to be in Jerry's charge for the year, lay close at hand. The little cabin was more attractive than most of the tenant houses in Scott County, bare, boxlike sheds, most of them standing starkly on barren hillsides or marshy stretches, as though the hand of some careless giant had scattered them with no thought whatever of the use that they were to serve. Jerry had picked the house from three because he wanted to bring his bride to something that looked like a home. Two tall hickory trees rose high into the air and intertwined their branches above the little house. It nestled comfortably under the hill. The low roof projected over the eaves and gave it a snug, homelike look. Inside it had a fireplace, though a small and crude one. Some former tenant had planted a lilac bush by the door; and a grape vine clambered over a rude trellis at one end. A little brook trickled through the hollow a few rods away and made pleasant murmurings.
Jerry had "worked out" during most of the year and had assiduously saved money. Judith too had worked again at Aunt Eppie's for several months and with her savings had bought bedding, towels, a dress or two and a few pieces of coarse muslin underwear gaily strung with crass pink ribbons. Jerry's mother had contributed two new patchwork quilts. Luella had made her a nice warm comforter tied with red wool. And Aunt Abigail, much to Judith's surprise, had come forward with one of her best Log Cabin quilts.
"This here quilt," she said, unfolding it impressively, "was patched by me when I was a little gal on'y fourteen year old. Gals don't patch quilts naow like they did when I was young. I've allus took good care of it, an' I want you to do the same, Judy. When you have a pack o' young uns of yer own, don't let 'em ramp an' tear all over it. Nothin' ruins a quilt quicker'n young uns a-pitchin' an' a-scramblin' a-top of it. If they've got to pitch an' scramble, let 'em do it on the grass or on the floor an' not a-top o' this here good quilt."
"Naow, Judy, we don't want to buy no new furniture," Jerry had said, when they were planning for their home. "New furniture costs too much. You can't git a new cook stove under about twenty-five dollars. An' at a sale you kin pick up one jes as good fer about eight or ten. Same with tables an' beds an' dressers. You kin git all sech plunder fer nex' to nothin' at sales. Fust sale there is anywhere within ten miles we'll go."
A short time after this a sale was advertised. Uncle Nat Carberry, who lived over near Dry Ridge, had died at the age of eighty-three, leaving his farm, stock, and personal possessions to be divided among his eight children. Everybody for miles around knew about the sale and nearly everybody was going whether they wanted to buy anything or not.
When Jerry and Judith got to the scene of the sale there were already many buggies and wagons hitched to the fence. One lonely automobile, a Ford, belonged to Pete Whitmarsh who was overseer for Hiram Stone. It was quite generally whispered of Pete that he managed to get away with a good deal more than his wages.
It was a mild, springlike day in late February, with the young grass already showing green in damp sheltered spots. The men were in the barnyard. The women and children were mostly clustered about the door, going in and out of the house, looking at the things set out for sale, peering into this and prodding at that with discreet curiosity. When they got tired of doing this, they sat down stiffly on the chairs that were for sale and stared straight ahead of them. They were dressed primly in their best clothes, with clean aprons and smoothly combed hair.