I recalled that several, in the South, means many—“a good many,” as our own tongues phrase it.
“Oh, shucks! Bill Cope,” put in “Doc” Jones, “whut do you-uns know about windstorms? Now, I’ve hed some experiencin’ up hyur that’ll do to tell about. You remember the big storm three year ago, come grass, when the cattle all huddled up a-top o’ each other and friz in one pile, solid.”
Bill grunted an affirmative.
“Wal, sir, I was a-herdin’, over at the Spencer Place, and was out on Thunderhead when the wind sprung up. Thar come one turrible vyg’rous blow that jest nacherally lifted the ground. I went up in the sky, my coat ripped off, and I went a-sailin’ end-over-end.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. About half an hour later, I lit spang in the mud, way down yander in Tuckaleechee Cove—yes, sir: ten mile as the crow flies, and a mile deeper ’n trout-fish swim.”
There was silence for a moment. Then Little John spoke up: “I mind about that time, Doc; but I disremember which buryin’-ground they-all planted ye in.”
“Planted! Me? Huh! But I had one tormentin’ time findin’ my hat!”
The cabin shook under a heavier blast, to match Bill’s yarn.
“Old Wind-maker’s blowin’ liars out o’ North Car’lina. Hang on to yer hat, Doc! Whoop! hear ’em a-comin’!”