“W’y, blame yer ignorant hide, wha’ wer’ ye borned and fotch up? I’ll jest knock the everlastin’ head off’n ye, thet’s ’zac’ly w’at I says. Mebbe ye don’t understan’ thet?”
“Yes,” said Hubbard, visibly shrinking into himself, “I begin to suspect your meaning.”
Miss Crabb was taking notes with enthusiastic rapidity.
Dunkirk called the sheriff to him and a long conference was held between them, the result of which was presently announced.
“I heve thort it over,” said the quiet officer of the law, “an’ es hit appear thet w’at grub air on han’ an’ done cooked might spile afore it c’u’d be sold, therefore I proclamate an’ say at you’ns kin stay yer tell termorrer an’ eat w’at’s cooked, but tech nothin’ else.”
Cattleton and Punner applauded loudly. To everybody the announcement was a reprieve of no small moment, and a sigh of relief rustled through the groups of troubled guests. Those who had been down the ravine were very tired and hungry; the thought of a cold luncheon to them was the vision of a feast.
Dunkirk had a basket of wine brought down from his room and he made the sheriff sit beside him at the table.
“We may as well make the most of our last evening together,” he said, glancing jovially around.
“We shall have to walk down the mountain in the morning, I suppose,” remarked Bartley Hubbard.