Of course he would not have relished the papaw, and only begged as a matter of habit or perhaps on principle; but he was given no opportunity to sample it, for Rufe hardly noticed him, being absorbed in dubiously watching Andy Byers, who was once more at work, scraping the hide with the two-handled knife. Jubal Perkins had gone into the house for a coal to re-kindle his pipe, for there is always a smouldering fire in the "smoke-room" for the purpose of drying the hides suspended from the rafters. He came out with it freshly glowing, and sat down on the broad, high pile of wood. As the first whiff of smoke wreathed over his head, he said, "What air the differ ter ye, Andy, whether 't war bub, hyar, or Birt, ez dressed up the blackberry bush? ye 'pear ter make a differ a-twixt 'em." Still Byers was evasive. "Whar's Birt, ennyhow?" he demanded irrelevantly. "Waal," drawled the tanner, with a certain constraint, "I hed been promisin' Birt a day off fur a right smart while, an' I tole him ez he mought ez well hev the rest o' ter-day. He 'lowed ez he warn't partic'lar 'bout a day off, now. But I tole him ennyhow ter go along. I seen him a while ago passin' through the woods, with his rifle on his shoulder--gone huntin', I reckon." "GONE HUNTIN'!" ejaculated Rufe in dudgeon, joining unceremoniously in the conversation of his elders. "Now, Birt mought hev let me know! I'd hev wanted ter go along too." "Mebbe that air the reason he never tole ye, bub," said Perkins dryly. For he could appreciate that Rufe's society was not always a boon, although he took a lenient view of the little boy. Any indulgence of Birt was more unusual, and Andy Byers experienced some surprise to hear of the unwonted sylvan recreations of the young drudge. He noticed that the mule was off duty too, grazing among the bushes just beyond the fence, and hobbled so that he could not run away. This precaution might have seemed a practical joke on the mule, for the poor old animal was only too glad to stand stock still. Rufe continued his exclamatory indignation. "Jes' ter go lopin' off inter the woods huntin', 'thout lettin' ME know! An' I never gits ter go huntin' nohow! An' mam won't let me tech Birt's rifle, 'thout it air ez empty ez a gourd! She say she air feared I'll shoot my head off, an' she don't want no boys, 'thout heads, jouncin' round her house--shucks! Which way did Birt take, Mister Perkins?--'kase I be goin' ter ketch up." "He war headed fur that thar salt lick, whenst I las' seen him," replied the tanner; "ef ye stir yer stumps right lively, mebbe ye'll overhaul him yit."