"Yes; he's running the paper."
"Don't 'pear to mind it, I reckon. I wonder McElwin don't hire him to pull out. Well, down in this neighborhood we've got a way of settlin' such things. We tell a feller to go and if he refuses, why, we see that he goes. We've got a mighty lively set of young fellers."
"And your brother Bob is one of the liveliest," said Sawyer.
"Well, Bob ain't slow. The other night they took out a feller over on Caney Fork, feller that had dropped into the habit of whippin' his wife—and they hit him about forty-five, with a promise of more; and they say now that he's as sweet to his home folks as a June apple-pie. Oh, it do have a powerful sweetenin' effect on a sour citizen. Any sour citizens up your way?"
"One," Sawyer answered.
"Don't know why, but I sorter thought so. It's dangerous in town, ain't it?"
"Not when you fix everything."
"Well, then, go ahead, but keep outer the way of the law. Here's Bob now."
A tall, gaunt young fellow stepped into the shop. He was a type of the southern ruralist, broad, flapping straw hat, home-woven shirt, cottonade trousers, one suspender. He grinned upon seeing Sawyer, and said, "Hi."
"Ho, Bob. Busy tonight?"