“You don’t know—you can’t imagine, Mr. Tolliver, what I suffered during that awful night,” she said, turning her head to one side and drawing her chin under until it almost disappeared in the lace at her throat. “It was horrible.”
Tolliver looked at her helplessly, his mouth open, his eyes dull and sunken.
“How did you happen to discover me up there, anyway, Mr. Tolliver?” she demanded, leaning toward him and laughing a little.
“The dog he treed ye, an’ then I seed ye settin’ up ther’ er writin’ away,” he managed to say, a wave of relief passing over his face at the sound of his own voice.
“It was perfectly ridiculous, perfectly preposterous,” she exclaimed, “but I’m mighty thankful that I was not hurt.”
“Yes, well ye mought be, Miss Crabb,” he stammered out. “Wonder ye wasn’t scrunched inter pieces an’ scattered all eround ther’.”
She slipped out her book, took a pencil from over her ear and made a note.
Tolliver eyed her dolefully. “How do you spell scrunched, Mr. Tolliver, in your dialect?” she paused to inquire.
His jaw fell a little lower for a moment, then he made an effort:
“S—q—r—u—” he paused and shook his head, “S—q—k—no thet’s not hit—s—k—q—r—dorg ef I ken spell thet word—begging yer parding, hit air ’tirely too hard for me.” He settled so low in his chair that his knees appeared almost as high as his head.