"Whut, Lem?"
"Whut yo'-all a runnin' fo'—eh?" demanded Lem.
Bud jammed one hand into his pocket, abashed, and cast a fearful glance toward the church door.
"Don't yo' know hit's the revenoor?"
"Yes, course I do, Lem—but—but they's a hant in em."
"Hant er no hant, we'uns air agoin' in, an' ef he hain't daid——"
"Yo' darsn't, Lem—no—no," protested Buddy in alarm. "Yo' darsn't kill hit, Lem—yo' darsn't kill a hant—th' witches 'll spell-tuk we'uns an' foller we'uns alers, alers. Slab says so—Slab knows."
"Well," returned Lem, "leastways we'uns 'll go back an' see."
Whereupon he strode to the church door resolutely and pushed it half open. Buddy still hung back undecided.
"Hain't yo' ole Cap Lutts' boy?" rebuked his brother severely. "An' hain't that the revenuer?"