"Yes." Jerry-Jo gave a gleaming smile that showed all his strong, white teeth—long, keen teeth they were, like the fangs of an animal.
"Where are the others?" asked Priscilla.
"Uncle's dead," the boy returned promptly and cheerfully; "dead, and a good thing. He was getting cranky."
Priscilla started back as if the mention of death on that glorious day cast a cloud and a shadow.
"And your father, Jerry-Jo, is he, too, dead?"
"No. Dad, he is in jail!"
"In—jail!" Never in her life before had Priscilla known of any one being in Kenmore jail. The red, wooden house behind its high, stockade fence was at once the pride and relic of the place. To have a jail and never use it! What more could be said for the peaceful virtues of a community?
"Yes. Dad's in jail and in jail he will stay, says he, till them as put him there begs his pardon humble and proper."
Priscilla now dropped the yoke upon the rocks and gave her entire thought to Jerry-Jo, who, she could see, was bursting with importance and a sense of the dramatic.
"What did your father do, Jerry-Jo?"