“Nance Owens?”
“That's her name.”
“Lord, everybody knows old Nance!” was the smiling answer.
“She ain't got good sense!” the tow-headed boy spoke up.
“Sh!” the mother warned, boxing his ears.
“She's a little queer, that's all. Everybody knows her in Buncombe and Yancey counties. Her house is built across the county line. She eats in Yancey and sleeps in Buncombe——”
“Yes,” broke in the boy joyously, “an' when the Sheriff o' Yancey comes, she moves back into Buncombe. She's some punkin's on a green gourd vine, she is—if she ain't got good sense.”
His mother struck at him again, but he dodged the blow and finished his speech without losing a word.
“Could you tell us the way to her house?”
“Keep right on this road, and you can't miss it.”