"You don't love me any more," said Sis, taking a new tack.
"Good Lord, Sis! Why, honey, what put that idee in your head?"
"I know you don't—I know it! Its always Dave Hightower this, and Sid Par-malee that, and old drunken Jake Norris the other. I just know you don't love me."
Teague also took a new tack, but there was a quiver in his voice born of deadly earnestness.
"I tell you, Sis, they er houndin' airter us; they er runnin' us down; they er closin' in on us; they er hemmin' us up. Airter they git your pore ole pappy an' slam 'im in jail, an' chain 'im down, who's a-gwineter promise to take keer er him? Hain't ole man Joshway Blasingame bin sent away off to Albenny? Hain't ole man Cajy Shannon a-sarvin' out his time, humpback an' cripple ez he is? Who took keer them? Who ast anybody to let up on 'em? But don't you fret, honey; ef they hain't no trap sot, nobody ain't a-gwineter pester him."
"I wouldn't trust that Sid Parmalee out of my sight!" exclaimed Sis, beginning to cry. "I know him, and I know all of you."
"But ef they is a trap sot," continued Teague, ignoring Sis's tears, "ef they is, I tell you, honey, a thousau' folks like me can't hol' the boys down. The time 'a done come when they er teetotally wore out with thish 'ere sneakin' aroun' an' hidin'-out bizness."
This appeared to end the conversation, but it left Woodward considerably puzzled. Shortly afterward he heard a rap at his door, and before he could respond to the summons by inquiry or invitation, Teague Poteet entered with a lighted candle in his hand.
"I 'lowed the stirrin' 'roun' mought 'a' sorter rousted you," said Teague, by way of apology, as he placed the light on a small table and seated himself on a wooden chest.
"Yes. What's up?" Woodward inquired.