"Lemme tell ye somethin' right now, Bud: M'lissy wouldn' fin' everybody clever 'nough to len' money to a no-'count feller like you. She better like me 'f she don'."
"She don' know hit, ye see. 'N she never shall 'f Ah c'n help hit."
Pressley grunted and seemed to reflect. Then he shook his head and muttered to himself.
"Hit might spoil the other."
"What ye say?" asked Bud.
"Nothin'. Ah'm studyin' 'bout fixin' a sort o' do' fo' here, so's the light won' shine out none when we-uns is workin'."
"Where's the smoke goin' to?"
"They's a split in that upper rock, fur back, we c'n run a bit o' pipe through. Leastways, they was when Ah was a kid."
"'N 's they ain' been no con-vulsion o' nature since that happy time, you 'low hit's still there."
"May be filled up; 'twan' overly big. But that's easy fixed."