"Who, me? No, suh. I earns all I gits—ef not befo', afterwards. Jest ez sho ez er pusson gibs me suthin' I gwine earn it."
Turning off from the river and entering upon a piece of level ground, they came to the post-office, an old log house with gable end toward the road. In an inclosure a number of tow-headed boys were trying to ride a calf. In the road a child, not more than able to toddle, was throwing stones at a blowing old goose.
Kintchin tied his horse to a "swinging limb," and the ladies were assisted to the ground. Tom conducted them into the post-office, a store wherein the merchant had for sale snuff, red calico, brown jeans, plug tobacco, cast iron plow points, nails and cove oysters. The post-master came forward dragging after him two splint-bottom chairs.
"Set down," he said. "Never seed you befo', but I'm glad to see you now."
Tom inquired if there were anything in the office for Mrs. Mary Mayfield or himself, calling his name; and the post-master looked at him closely and asked: "Any kin to old Zeb Elliot that used to sell mink skins?"
"No, I have no relatives in this part of the country."
"Wall, old Zeb was a good deal of a man."
"That may be, but he was no relation of mine."
"Had long red whiskers and his hair stood up straight—seed him climb a tree one night and shake a coon out as slick as a whistle. Had a dog named Tige—feller pizened him. Where you frum?"
"Nashville. I wish you'd look—"