“I’ll do that, Misther Stump, an no mistake. Be me trath—”
“Keep yur palaver to yurself, till I’ve finished talkin’ to ye.”
“Sowl! I won’t say a word.”
“Then don’t, but lissen! Thur’s somethin ’bout which I don’t wait ye to make any mistake. It air this. Ef there shed anybody stray this way dyurin my absince, ye’ll let me know. You musn’t lose a minnit o’ time, but let me know.”
“Shure I will—sowl, yis.”
“Wal, I’ll depend on ye.”
“Trath, yez may;—but how Misther Stump? How am I to lit yez know, if you’re beyant hearin’ av me voice? How thin?”
“Wal, I reck’n, I shan’t need to go so fur as thet. Thur ought to be gobblers cloast by—at this time o’ the mornin’.
“An yit there moutent,” continued Zeb, after reflecting a while. “Ye ain’t got sech a thing as a gun in the shanty? A pistol ’ud do.”
“Nayther wan nor the tother. The masther tuk both away wid him, when he went last time to the sittlements. He must have lift them thare.”