"Not the track of a squurl, yer honor. There's not a wilder bit in all the State, I'm thinkin'."
"I believe one might find a way on horseback," said the doctor, "and I shall try it some day."
"Ye'd best not do it. I'd be loath to see ye leaving a good trade for a bad one." Timothy grasped his hickory cane, and shook his grizzled head at the doctor. Then, coming a step nearer, he whispered, "Moonshiners."
"To be sure," said the doctor, turning again to look at the smoke.
"It's a bad business," said Timothy, carefully studying the doctor's face.
"Yes, it's a bad business, making whiskey, or selling it, or drinking it; but paying a tax to the government does not make it any better. I believe every dollar that comes to the government from such a source is a curse."
Timothy drew a long breath.
"You're right, sor. I'm not beholden to the stuff myself; but yer honor's done me a good turn, and I couldn't see ye bringin' trouble on yerself by askin' too many questions. It mightn't be—pop'lar, sor."
The doctor asked no more questions, but he watched the blue smoke more curiously than ever, wondering much about the outlaws who carried on their secret trade in the mountain fastnesses. He had been thinking of them that very morning as he rode along, with the reins lying loosely on his knee, when suddenly Prince gave a start that roused his driver. A small figure stepped out from the shadow of a rock, and stood close beside the gig, saying,
"Would you come to my feyther, sir?"