“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Spurlock, sarcastically; “a mighty purty dream, I bet a hoss. You was fixin’ up for to cram me in Lovejoy’s stockin’. A mighty nice present I’d ’a’ been, tooby shore. Stidder hangin’ up his stockin’, Lovejoy was a-aimin’ for to hang me up. Oh, yes! Christmas dreams is so mighty nice an’ fine, I’m a great min’ to set right down here an’ have one er my own—one of them kin’ er dreams what’s got forked tail an’ fireworks mixed up on it.”
“Well,” said Chadwick, with some seriousness, “whose stockin’ is you a-gwine to cram me in?”
“In whose else’s but Danny Lemmons’s? An’ won’t he holler an’ take on? Why, I wouldn’t miss seein’ Danny Lemmons take on for a hat full er shinplasters. Dang my buttons ef I would!”
Chadwick looked at his captor with some curiosity. There was not a trace of ill-feeling or bad humor in Spurlock’s tone, nor in his attitude. The situation was so queer that it was comical, and Chadwick laughed aloud as he thought about it. In this Spurlock heartily joined him, and the situation would have seemed doubly queer to a passer-by chancing along and observing captor and prisoner laughing and chatting so amiably together.
“Who, in the name of goodness, is Danny Lemmons?”
“Lord!” exclaimed Spurlock, lifting both hands, “don’t ast me about Danny Lemmons. He’s—he’s—well, I tell you what, he’s the bull er the woods, Danny Lemmons is; nuther more ner less. He hain’t bigger ’n my two fists, an’ he’s ’flicted, an’ he’s all crippled up in his back, whar he had it broke when he was a baby, an’ yit he’s in-about the peartest man on the mountain, an’ he’s the toughest an’ the sooplest. An’ more ’n that, he’s got them things up here,” Spurlock went on, tapping his head significantly. Chadwick understood this to mean that Lemmons, whatever might be his afflictions, had brains enough and to spare.
There was a pause in the conversation, and then Chadwick, looking at his bound wrists, which were beginning to chafe and swell, spoke up.
“What’s your will wi’ me?” he asked.
“Well,” said Spurlock, rising to his feet, “I’m a-gwine to empty your gun, an’ tote your pistol for you, an’ invite you down to Uncle Billy’s. Oh, you needn’t worry,” he went on, observing Chadwick’s disturbed expression, “they’re expectin’ of you. Polly’s tol’ ’em you’d likely come back.”
“How did Polly know?” Chadwick inquired.