With the greatest air of insouciance the vagabond fiddler chanted, in the same sing-song with which I had grown familiar:
"Raccoon got a ring-a-roun' tail,
Possum tail am bar';
Rabbit got no tail at all,
Jes' a little bunch o' ha'r!"
It was plainly immaterial to Jeff whether I believed him or not. Equally plain it was that he knew what he was talking about.
"I believe you, Satyr. But who told you?"
He was instantly placated.
"Nobody to' me noth'n', but I ain't no plum' ejit."
"But Mrs. Toller—"
"Look-y-here, pardner!" Jeff squirmed around and thrust his goat-tuft forward. "Granny tuk Lessie 'way frum these here parts on 'count o' you. She 'peared to b'lieve whut I tol' 'er 'bout th' gel lyin' on yo', but they ain't no manner o' 'pen'ence to be put in Granny's notions. She's made up o' contrair'ness, anyhow. She jes' got to mull'n' 'n' a-brood'n', 'n' whut 'ith her trouble 'ith Ar'minty 'n' all she jes' 'lowed it's well 's not to light out fur a spell. 'N' hev yo' got little 'nough sinse to 'low fur a minute she 'd tell that long-tongued Ab'gail Toller whur she's a-goin'? Yes, she tol' Ab'gail Toller she's a-goin' to Snack Holler—'n' fur why? 'Cus she knowed yo'd come a-nosin' 'roun' axin' questions, 'n' th' fust place you'd go 'd be right thur."
I felt the water closing over me afresh at these words of doom.
"But don't you know?" I urged, desperately. "Didn't you ask Granny?"