“Bless the Lord, he did!” the checked apron voiced a melancholy triumph.
“An' then, ye remember whenst Dad set out fire in the woods las' fall ter burn off the trash on his own lan', the flames run jes' a leetle over his line an' on ter them woods on Storm Mounting, doin' no harm ter nobody, nor nuthin'!”
“Not a mite—not a mite,” asseverated the apron.
“An' ez sech appears ter be agin the law Petrie gin information an' Dad war fined five dollars!”
“An' paid it!” cried Jane Gilhooley. “Ye know that!”
“An' then, ez it 'pears ter be the law ez one hundred dollars fur sech an offense is ter be forfeited ter ennybody ez will sue fur it,” Medora resumed, “Petrie seen his chance ter git even fur bein' beat in a reg'lar knock-down-an'-drag-out fight, an',” with the rising inflection of a climax, “he hev sued and got jedgmint!”
“An' so what that half-drunk dep'ty, Clem Tweed, calls an execution war leveled!” exclaimed Jane Gilhooley, her veiled head swaying forlornly as she sobbed invisibly.
“But Dad 'lowed ez Peter Petrie shouldn't hev none o' his gear,” Medora's eyes flashed with a responsive sentiment.
“His gran'mam's warpin' bars!” suggested the elder woman.
“The spinnin'-wheels she brung from No'th Carliny,” enumerated Medora, “the loom an' the candle-moulds.”