Upon top of his hat was a deep trench made by a club. "The handkerchiefs did their duty nobly," he remarked. "Let everybody come forward and identify his property." "What did you see?" asked Punner. "A giant with an oak tree in his hand and murder in his eye," said Cattleton, busily selecting and returning the handkerchiefs. "This eleemosynary padding was all that saved me. The blow was aimed at my divine intellect." "See here," cried Peck, in great earnest, "this is no joking matter. We're in the power of a set of mountain moonshiners, and may be murdered in cold blood. We'd better do something." Crane had prowled around until he had found a small jug of fragrant mountain dew whisky, which he was proceeding to taste in true Kentucky style, when a gaunt form rose in a corner of the room, and tottering forward seized the jug and took it out of his hand. "No ye don't, sonny, no ye don't! This yer mounting jew air not ever'body's licker 'at wants it. Not by er half er mile at the littlest calc'lation!" Miss Crabb made a note. Crane gazed pathetically at the fantastic old man before him, and brushed his handkerchief across his lips, as if from habit, as he managed to say: "I meant no undue liberty, I assure you. That whisky is----" "Overpowerin'," interrupted the old man, taking a sip from the vessel. "Yes, I don't blame ye fur a wantin' of it, but this yer licker air mine." "Up in Kentucky," said Crane, "we are proud to offer----" "Kaintucky! did ye say ole Kaintuck? Air ye from ther', boy?" The octogenarian leaned forward as he spoke and gazed at Crane with steadfast, rheumy eyes. Miss Henrietta Stackpole came forward to hear what was to follow, her instinct telling her that a point of human interest was about to be reached. "Yes," said Crane, "I was born and reared on Lulbegrud creek." "Lulbegrud!" "Yes." "How fur f'om Wright's mill?" "Close by, at Kiddville," said Crane. "Ye 'member Easton's Springs close by an' Pilot Knob away off in the distance?" "Very well, indeed, and Guoff's pond." "Boy, what mought yer name be?" "Crane." "Crane!" "Yes." "Well, I'll ber dorg!" The old man stood gazing and grinning at Crane for some moments, and then added: "What's yer pap's name?" "Eliphas Crane." "'Liphas Crane yore pap!" "Yes." "Child, I air yer pap's uncle." "What!" "I air Peter Job Crane." "You!" "Sartin es anything." "Are you my father's uncle Peter?" "I air yer pap's uncle Pete." "How strange!" Miss Stackpole did not permit a word, a look, or a shade of this interview to escape her. She now turned to Bartley Hubbard and said: "We Americans are the victims of heterogeneous consanguinity. Such an incident as this could not happen in England. It will be a long time before we can get rid of our ancestors." "Yes," assented Hubbard, nonchalantly, "Yer pap's uncle certainly is a large factor in American life." "How many men did you see when you looked out?" Peck inquired, addressing Cattleton.