“Good morning,” growled Crane.
Tolliver looked off over the valley and up at the sky which was flecked with tags of fleece-cloud.
“Hit look like hit mought rain in er day er two,” he remarked.
“Yes, I don’t know, quite likely,” said Crane, gazing evasively in another direction.
“Ever’body’s well, I s’pose, up ther’ at the tavern?” inquired Tolliver.
“I believe so,” was the cold answer.
Tolliver leaned over the pommel of his saddle-tree and combed his horse’s mane with his sinewy fingers. Meantime the expression in his face was one of exceeding embarrassment blent with cunning.
“Kyernel, c’u’d ye do a feller a leetle yerrent what’s of importance?” he asked with peculiar faltering.
“Do what?” inquired Crane lifting his eye-brows and turning the cigar in his mouth.
“Jest a leetle frien’ly job o’ kindness,” said Tolliver, “jest ter please ask thet young leddy—thet Miss Crabb ’at I fotch up yer on er mule tother day, ye know; well, jest ax her for me ef I moughtn’t come in an’ see ’er on pertic’lar an’ pressin’ business, ef ye please, sir.”