“Don't git hifty, old woman, or we 're liable to give you a lesson in politeness before we leave.” The leader dropped the butt of his gun with a crash on the floor. “Where is the little sneak, anyhow?”
“What do you want of him?”
“Want him to go 'long with us; we 're hunting some parties, and need a guide. They tol' us up the road a bit he knew every inch o' these yere mountings.”
There was a pause, as if Maria was endeavoring to decide as to the honesty of the speaker. Her final answer proved the mental survey had not proven satisfactory.
“Wal, I reckon,” she said calmly, “as you uns 'll be more likely ter find him down 'bout Connersville.”
“Then whut's all these yere dirty dishes doing on the table?”
“Hed sum Yankee officers yere; they just rode on down ther trail as you uns cum up.”
“Like hell!” ejaculated the fellow with complete loss of temper. “See here, old woman, we 're too old birds to be caught with any such chaff. We'll take a look around the old shebang anyhow, and while we're at it you put something on the table for me and my mates to eat.”
The voice and manner were rough, but I was impressed with a certain accent creeping into the man's speech bespeaking education. More, in spite of an apparent effort to make it so, his dialect was not that of those mountains.
Even as he uttered these last words, throwing into them a threat more in the tone than the language, I became aware of a thin ray of light penetrating the seemingly solid wall just in front of me, and bending silently forward could dimly distinguish the elliptical head of Bungay as he applied one eye to a small opening he had industriously made between the logs. Grasping Mrs. Brennan firmly by the hand so that we should not become separated, I crept across the intervening blackness, and reached his side.