"Lordy, honey! I wuz that gone tell I didn't know whe'er I 'uz rolled up in a haystack er stretched out in a feather-bed. I reckon ef you'd 'a' listened right clost you'd 'a' heern me sno'. I thes laid back an' howled at the rafters, an' once-t er twice-t I wuz afeard I mought waken up Puss."
Sis's response to this transparent fib was an infectious peal of laughter, and a kiss which amply repaid Teague for any discomfort to which he may have been subjected.
Once, after Sis had nestled up against Teague, she asked somewhat irrelevantly—
"Pap, do you reckon Mr. Woodward was a revenue spy after all?"
"Well, not to'rds the last. He drapped that business airter he once seed its which-aways. What makes you ast?"
"Because I hate and despise revenue spies."
"Well, they hain't been a-botherin' roun lately, an' we hain't got no call to hate 'em tell they gits in sight. Hatin' is a mighty ha'sh disease. When Puss's preacher comes along, he talks ag'in it over the Bible, an' when you call 'im in to dinner, he talks ag'in it over the chicken-bones. I reckon hit's mighty bad—mighty bad."
"Did you like him?"
"Who? Puss's preacher?"
"Now, you know I don't mean him, pap."