Imogene was smiling into the dusk, but her thoughts were on serious matters.
"Well, which do you think Mr. Rogeen will do?"
Noah twisted his shoulders again, and shuffled his feet on the ground.
"I always hate to give a plumb out opinion—because it nearly always ruins your reputation as a prophet. But Bob ain't nobody's fool. And he's white from his heels to his eyeballs—everything except his liver."
Imogene laughed, but felt a swelling in the throat. That tribute from the hill bill meant more than the verdict of a court.
"The only trouble is," Noah was speaking a little uneasily himself, "Reedy Jenkins is a skunk and he's got some pizen rats gnawing for him. There ain't nothin' they won't do—except what they are afraid to. Bob's got 'em so they don't tie their goats around his shack any more. But they are going to do him dirt, sure as a tadpole makes a toad.
"Reedy Jenkins has got hold of a lot of money somewhere again; and he's set out to bush Bob, and get away with the pile. I don't know just how he's aimin' to do it; but Reedy don't never have any regrets over what happens to the other fellow if it makes money for him."
The hill billy's words made Imogene more uneasy than before. And yet looking at the lank, droll fellow sitting there in the starlight, she again smiled, and sighed.
"Well, I'm mighty glad Mr. Rogeen has you for a friend," she said aloud.
"A friend," observed Noah, "is sorter like a gun—expensive in town but comfortin' in the country.