Edgar Coffey had returned on the evening before Westover's arrival and his report had included some account of Webb's boasting that he had "declined to consider Boyd Westover as a man entitled to the attention of a gentleman."
"Now wait, Edgar," Judy said, when Coffey reported this; "don't let your loose tongue git away with you. Did you hear him say that hisself—the durned little two-cent postage?"
"Yes, Judy, sure an' certain; an' everybody down that way's a laughin' in their sleeves 'bout it. They says, says they, 'Why, ef Boyd Westover was to git a real mad on him, that feller wouldn't make a mouthful fer him.'"
"No more would he," said Judy, addressing herself.
So Judy knew in advance the whole story that she asked Westover to tell her; but she wanted to hear his version of it and find out his mood of mind concerning it, and so she gave no sign of knowing anything. That was Judy's way.
Just as the two comfortably seated themselves Theonidas—the thirteen year old son of the house—emerged from within bearing a tray on which were a stone jug, a vase-like glass, containing honey in the comb, two tumblers and a little array of spoons.
"Now wait a minute, Boyd," said Judy as she directed the placing of the tray on a table that stood between her and Westover. "You's got a lot o' durned temperance nonsense mixed up with your good sense, but this is a 'ceptional occasion; I ain't yit had a chanst to drink to the new 'Westover of Wanalah,' nor yit to congratulate you; an' besides that, they ain't no harm in a glass o' peach an' honey when I raised the honey an' made the peach myself, an' specially when the peach is thirteen year ole in the bar'l. So you an' me is a goin' to have a glass o' peach an' honey together, sich as folks don't often taste these days. They was three bar'ls o' that there peach brandy, when my husband, Marcellus, an' me made it, thirteen year ago, an' that jug's got the last drop that's left of it. An' the best of it is they ain't never anybody but the best been let to let it trickle down their throats. When it were five year old I sold one bar'l of it to Tom Griffin in Richmond, 'cause he never would let anybody but the best have any of it. When it were ten year old I give one bar'l of it to your pappy, 'cause I jes' know'd what sort o' folks he'd let drink it. You see the peaches that year—thirteen year ago—was extra superfine, an' I picked out the very best of 'em for them three bar'ls o' brandy, an' they ain't been no peach like it ever made in these here mountings. So now you an' me's a goin' to have a glass o' peach an' honey, an' sip it slow like, while we talk, so's that we kin git the taste in our throats an' all the way down. You see, Boyd, they's tricks in makin' peach jes' as they is in politics an' religion an' school teachin' and gittin' married. They wa'n't no trick when I got married, mind. I don't mean that. Marcellus Peters was as good a man as these here mountings ever raised, an' now he's been dead more'n a dozen years I ain't got no complaint to make 'bout him. Only he hadn't much 'git there' in him. It didn't make much difference, 'cause I could ten' to that part o' the business myself. But he did know how to make peach an' apple brandy. You see, Boyd, they's tricks in makin' peach, as I was a sayin', an' Marcellus he know'd all of 'em. I ain't a sayin' he didn't work 'em off on folks as didn't know nor care. He'd git a order fer peach when he hadn't no peach, an' he'd fill the order. He'd take ten pound or so o' dried peaches an' set 'em to stew fer an hour or so. Then he'd put 'em through the bung hole of a bar'l o' apple brandy, an' let 'em 'sociate with the brandy like, fer three or four days, rollin' the bar'l now an' then to shake it up, like. Then he'd draw that brandy off into another bar'l, an' it was fine old peach. Same with cherry brandy, or blackberry, an' the stuck-ups didn't know the difference. But this here peach is differenter. It was made of peaches, good peaches, such as you'd smile to eat, an' Tom Griffin was glad to pay me seven dollars a gallon for the bar'l of it he got. I reckon he'd pay twice that ef he could git another bar'l of it now."
Judy Peters was not talking without a definite purpose. She never did that. Even when her conversation rambled as it did on this occasion, it rambled of set purpose and with deliberate intent. This time her purpose was to induce a like rambling impulse on Boyd Westover's part, so that she might not only hear from his lips the whole story of his tribulations, but gather, by the wayside of his conversation as it were, a clear impression of his present mood and attitude of mind, something which could not be gained by direct questioning.
In all this the shrewdly wise old woman succeeded, and when Boyd Westover bade her good night as the clock struck twelve, she knew all she wanted to know about him. After he had gone to bed she lighted her pipe anew and summed up her conclusions in the case of the young man beneath her roof in reflections to the following effect:
"He's a feelin' it more'n's good fer him.