"Did ye hear 'bout 'Gene Crawley?" asked Mrs. Crane, later, when Justine came in from the barn. The old woman was preparing the frugal breakfast and Justine was seated beside the stove, her half-frozen feet near the oven. A sickening terror forced a groan from her lips, for something told her that the news was the worst. His body had been found!
"What—what is it?" she whispered.
"He whupped the daylights out'n Jake Smalley an' Laz Dunbar down to the tollgate day 'fore yest'day. Mrs. Brown wuz here las' night jest 'fore you got home, an' she says her man says 'twuz the wust fight that ever wuz fit in the county."
Justine was leaning back in her chair, her heart throbbing with relief.
"Was—was he hurt?" she asked, indefinitely.
"Who? 'Gene? Not a speck! But that big Smalley wuz unsensibul when 'Gene got off'n him. Doc Pollister says he won't be able to see out'n them eyes o' his'n fer over a week. Laz lit out an' run like a whitehead after 'Gene hit him onct. I'm glad he didn't git hurt much, 'cause he's goin' to be babtised down at the crick tomorrer, an' he'd 'a' tuck cold, shore. I tell you, that 'Gene Crawley's a nasty feller. Constable O'Brien's afeered to serve the warrant on him."
"What was it all about, Aunt Sue?"
"O, nothin' much," answered Mrs. Crane, evasively, suddenly busying herself about the stove. "I never did see sitch a fire! It jest won't act right. Where'd this wood come from, Jestine?"
"From the jack-oak grove," said Justine. For a while she was silent, a new impression forming itself in her brain. Stronger and stronger it grew until it became almost a conviction. "Tell me what the fight was about," she went on, breaking in upon Mrs. Crane's chatter.
"O, I'd ruther—er—I don't know fer shore what it wuz about. Somethin' Jake said to 'Gene, I reckon. 'Gene fights 'thout any real cause, y' know." The old woman was clearly embarrassed and eager to evade the explanation.