"Oh, don't say so, Mr. Wycoff," said Little Wolf, every particle of color forsaking her face.
"Well, now if I ain't beat," said the rough man, "I thought you would be tickled to dance on Hank's grave."
Little Wolf turned silently away and went into the house.
"Well, well," and Wycoff bent a look of inquiry upon Sorrel Top, who had been out sharing his solicitude for her mistress.
"I guess she feels kinder horrible like, about seeing him mashed," was Sorrel Top's explanatory reply.
"Well, I'll jest go round and see what his condition is, anyhow."
While Wycoff was on his mission and Little Wolf shut up in her room, Sorrel Top hastened to communicate the news to Daddy.
"'Tween you and me I'm glad on't," said Daddy, exultingly. I hope he's dead."
"Well, now, that's heathenish, Daddy, to wish a feller critter dead."
"He wan't no feller critter," said Daddy, indignantly, "he was nothin' but a liquor-seller: the wust kind tu, fur he knowed just what mischief he wus a doing to the human race. Yes, and to the brute race tu, fur I've seen men whallop their hosses nigh about tu death when they was in liquor."