"I guess I'd bin without, with no comfort but the dogs," she thought bitterly, and pushing away her plate, she said aloud, "I thank ye kindly, but I can't swaller another morsel."
A roar of laughter saluted her ears. Gippie's inquiring muzzle had scented out the bacon and had seized it, whereupon Poacher, knowing that it was not intended for him, had gently but firmly taken it from him, and was walking about the cabin, holding it aloft, while Gippie snarled at his heels.
'Tilda Jane paid no attention to them. The greater matter of her soul's destiny was under consideration. "Are you an extry good man?" she abruptly asked her host.
He stopped laughing, and a shadow came over his face. Then his glance went to his boys. "What you say, sons?"
The boys stared at each other, avoided his eye, and said, uneasily, "Course you be, pop—don't make game."
"Make game," repeated the man, strangely, "make game," then he laughed shortly, and made another onslaught on the bacon and bread.
"'Cause I'm lookin' for an extry good person," went on 'Tilda Jane, brusquely. "Some one that won't blab, an' that I kin tell a story to."
"Well, thar ain't no extry good persons in the woods," said her host, "we be only ordinary. You better wait till you git out. What was you doin' so far from houses last night, leetle gal, 'stead o' bein' tucked snug in bed?"
"I might as well tell the truth," she said, helplessly. "I'm tired o' lies. I was runnin' away from somethin', but whether my runnin' was good or bad is what I can't make out."
"While you're puzzlin' you eat some more breakfus'," said the man, getting up and putting another supply of bacon on her plate. "You've got to call up strength to git out. I s'pose you dunno you're some miles from sofas, an' pianos, an' easy chairs."