"This is ther durndest hunt I ever heerd 'bout in these hills," said Peter. "A half-day out, an' no game."
"We haven't fired a gun," replied Wade, "therefore have no game." The old man looked at Wade, then at his daughter. His disappointed expression was at once superseded by one of anxiety. Indeed, he looked very sorrowful. "But ye fired one good shot," he said sternly. "An ef ye intend ter be foolin', I want ter warn ye ter be a-lookin' out. Fun shots don't go in this hyar kintry." He appeared to be greatly agitated now, but when he learned the real circumstances he softened, and his eyes gave forth a tender expression. "Git down," he said, "chuck is put nigh ready. I'll put yer hoss up'n feed him, an' we'll have a old time talk 'bout everything, from ther days o' Goliath till ther days o' corn-huskin',—'bout which ye know mighty little, I reckon, ef I don't miss my guess a long way, by lookin' at ye."
Old Peter refrained from remarking just at this time anything touching upon the actions of Al Thompson, but many strange and peculiar thoughts were romping pell-mell through his heavy brain.
CHAPTER V
Dining at the home of a farmer was quite a new and novel experience to Wade, as there was no similarity to dining in a fashionable restaurant on a fashionable street in a large city. This was an experience in his life that he often thought of afterward. At one end of the table sat Peter Judson, to his right sat Mrs. Judson. In one corner of the stuffy little cabin dining-room sat a gray old cat on its haunches, appearing in every respect to be quite angry because it had been made to wait until the second table when it had been accustomed to eating with the family. Wade watched the cat, for it very often "licked its chops." Beside him lay Rover, the furry-headed dog, Nora's pet.
Jack was just as awkward at that table as the girl would have been had she been sitting down at a table in the greatest hotel in New York City. His manners and table etiquette were so entirely different that his actions did not seem at all right or natural. He sat like a boy who has been allowed to eat at the first table when his father had company. When Nora asked if he wouldn't take a piece of the "sow's belly," and he replied, "Thank you, I wouldn't choose any," she still held the dish before him until he took a slice. He sipped his coffee daintily, as a girl at an evening tea, holding the cup by the handle, while his little finger was extended high, and the girl gave him a cup-towel—"so's ther cup wouldn't burn his fingers" when he was drinking his coffee. He cut the meat off his chicken bone with his knife and put it into his mouth with his fork, causing the girl to blush because he was acting so ridiculous before her Dad and Mam, when she had really expected so much of him at this crucial time.
Old Peter would take about half his coffee at one gulp—this was more natural—making a noise like unto a sawmill when it is thoroughly busy. Then he would wipe his mouth on his shirt sleeve and take the coffee off his mustache with a sizzing noise. The climax to this long-to-be-remembered meal came when Wade put his knife and fork in his plate and picked up the scraps of bread and chicken bones and put them carefully alongside the knife and fork. Being unable to understand such strange conduct, Nora stepped behind Jack and hid her face in a dish towel. We do not know just what she was doing behind the towel, but presume she "stole a sweet smile," as her face was very red when she finally came out of hiding.
They got through the meal, however, after a great length of time had elapsed, for they conversed about every thing, crops especially and folks in the city in general. Tom was off toward the village purchasing supplies and would not return, likely, until late in the afternoon, so Wade must content himself with listening to Peter Judson for at least a half-day. This he did, and he listened with growing interest. The old man knew of things that had happened away back yonder 'afore the war, and he knew about things that would happen at some future date. He had lived through one generation of feuds and thought "thar mout be tough times ahead fer some folks as he know'd of now, an' they hain't fer away, nuther," he said meaningly. "Why, jest let me tell you somethin', Wade," said old Peter, bending over and shaking his finger at the latter. "Way back yonder somewhar in the eighteens we had some mouty lot of trouble, that we did. Them was ther days when ther white caps or somethin' done things, and I hain't fergot it nuther, an' what's more, I hain't never a-goin ter fergit. I hain't that sort—ther fergit'n kind. An' ye'll find that out 'afore ye air hyar in this kintry much longer. Ef a man treats Peter Judson all right, he's a-goin' ter git treated all right back again. Ef he treats me mean, why, he's gotter look out fer his head, that's all. I kin remember onct away back yonder—I was on t'other side then—an' was as peaceful a man as lived, when I was a plowin' in my field an' up comes a feller as fast as he could ride a hoss, an' says, sayse: 'Peter Judson, yer gotter git out o' this kintry, an' that putty quick. Ef yer don't, yer neck'll be stretched.' 'Well, I won't,' says I, 'not till I git good'n ready, an' ef you ner anybody else thinks as how they kin make me git out afore I want to, let's see ther color o' his hair. An' I takes ther lines from my shoulders an' drops 'em down over ther plow handle an' squares myself, thinkin' maybe he'd want some of it right then an' thar. But no, what'd he do? He up an' put spurs to his hoss an' digs out down ther road lip-i-ty-clip, an' I seed nuthin' o' him no more."
The old man paused to let out a great stream of tobacco juice.