"Fell down and broke her hip," Margaret mused aloud.
"Yes'm. Runnin' fitten to kill herse'f at the time. Can't run so mighty brisk, you know, bein' old an' sorter rheumatic, but she done the best she could. I seed a old feller a runnin' once, an' I says—"
"But here," Jasper broke in, "ain't she old enough to know better'n to run fitten to kill herse'f?"
"Yes, suh, but she had to run on this here occasion. She was a gittin' outen the way."
"Outen the way of what?"
"The crazy man that was atter her with a knife. Reckon you ricolleck Bud Thomas," he went on without a change of countenance. "He made a fiddle outen a gourd an' could play on it a right sharp. Went along by the sto' one day an' he war a settin' on a box with this here gourd riddle, an—"
"Well, but what about him?" Jasper broke in.
"He war the crazy man. Reckon you ricollect that black ash tree down by the creek at Baker's ford. Come along thar one time when the white suckers war a runnin' an' I had a pair of grab hooks, an'—"
"Well, what about Baker's ford?" Jasper asked, coming closer to him, and Margaret leaned forward expectantly.
"That's whar he hung hisse'f."