"Whar'bouts?" Taft's great voice boomed out once more as it were inadvertently. "Ter Buncombe County in old Car'liny, whar I got some kinfolks a-livin'," said Larrabee. "That's what I war a-studyin' 'bout," he added, still striving for a more incidental effect. The furnace door was open, for the fire was low, the still but just emptied, and the work intermitted for the nonce. The bed of red coals filled the place with a dull glow. In its dreamy light he saw suddenly the broad, flabby face of Dan Sykes, the youngest of the moonshiners, distorted with silent mirth, like the face of a caricature. He sat upon a billet of wood in a lowly attitude, frog-like with his upturned head which was supported by his two hands, his elbows resting on his knees drawn high under his chin. His distended grin of evident delight in Taft's answer showed that it was not unexpected. "Why, law, Jasper," exclaimed Taft,--but the unctuous tone would not mix with the lie of the intent, and floated in its midst like oil on water,--"I couldn't make out _now_, jes' _now_, 'thout you-uns. I be short-handed now, 'count o' Espey, an' I got word ter-day from the cross-roads fur two barrels o' corn juice quick ez it kin be got thar. Yer kin in Buncombe,"--his eye twinkled, for he suspected the kin in Buncombe to be of that airy folk known only to dreams and deceits,--"they'll keep. Ye'll hev jes' ter put off goin' fur a leetle spell,--bein' so short-handed, ye know." "What air they aimin' ter pay fur them bar'ls?" demanded Larrabee calmly.