“Goodness! but isn’t this rich material,” Miss Crabb soliloquized, writing in her little red book with might and main. “Bret Harte never discovered anything better.”
Miss Henrietta Stackpole was too busy absorbing the human interest of the interview between the two Cranes, to be more than indirectly aware of anything else that was going on around her.
“Ye needn’t be erfeard as ter bein’ hurt, boy,” said the old man, “not es long es yer pap’s uncle Pete air eroun’ yer. Hit ain’t often ’at I meets up wi’ kinfolks downyer, an’ w’en I does meet up wi’ ’em I treats ’em es er Southern gen’l’man orter treat his kinfolks.”
“Precisely so,” said Crane, taking another sip, “hospitality is a crowning Southern virtue. When I go up to Louisville Henry Watterson and I always have a good time.”
“Spect ye do, boy, spect ye do. Louisville use ter be a roarin’ good place ter be at.”
Tolliver, whose wits had been hard at work, now proposed what he called “terms o’ pay-roll, like what they hed in the war.”
“Ef ye’ll all take a oath an’ swa’ at ye’ll never tell nothin’ erbout nothin,” said he, “w’y I’ll jest let ye off this yer time.”
“That is fair enough,” said Dufour, “we are not in the detective service.”
“Then,” observed Tolliver, “ef I ken git the ’tention of this yer meetin’, I move ’at it air yerby considered swore ’at nothin’ air ter be said erbout nothin’ at no time an’ never. Do ye all swa’?”
“Yes!” rang out a chorus of voices.