"I 'lowed I'd better take a peep at that stove o' yore'n, an' see that thar ain't any danger o' fire while we are asleep," he said. "How'd you make out to-night?"
"First rate."
"I 'lowed you wus gittin' on well enough—talked to most all the gals, I reckon."
"All but one, I think—that Miss Floyd."
"Ah, Toot's gal; mortgaged property, I reckon, or soon will be; she's as purty as red shoes, though, an' as peert as a cricket."
Westerfelt sat down on the side of his bed and drew off his boots.
"What sort of a man is he, Luke?"
"Bad—bad; no wuss in seven States."
"Fighting man?"
"Yes; an' whiskey an' moonshinin' an' what not; ain't but one good p'int in 'im, an' that hain't wuth much in time o' peace. I reckon ef yo're through with it, I'd better take yore candle; sometimes I have to strike a light 'fore day."