war a varmint arter ’em; an’ he snatched his gun an’ runned out ter the hog-pen. An’ thar they war, all jammed up tergether, gruntin’ an’ snortin’; an’ Mose say he war afeard to shoot ’mongst ’em, fur fear o’ hittin’ some o’ them stiddier the varmint. An’ whilst he war lookin’ right keerful,—the moon hed kem out by then,—he seen, stiddier a wolf, suthin’ a-bowin’ down off’n the fence. An’ the thing cotch up a crust o’ bread, or a rind o’ water-million, or suthin’, out o’ the trough fur the hogs, an’ then sot up ez white-faced on the fence, a-munchin’ it an’ a-lookin’ at him. An’ Mose ’lowed he war so plumb s’prised he los’ his senses. He ’lowed ’twar a harnt,—it looked so onexpected. He jes’ flung his rifle on the groun’ an’ run. It’s mighty seldom sech tracks hev been made on the Big Smoky ez Mose tuk. We-uns ain’t medjured ’em yit, but Mose hev got the name ’mongst the gang o’ bein’ able ter step fourteen feet at a stride.” He showed his long, tobacco-stained teeth in the midst of his straggling beard, and as he talked on he gnawed at a plug of tobacco, as if, being no impediment to thought, it could be none to its expression. “Mose lept inter the house, declarin’ thar war a harnt a-settin’ on the fence. Ye know Jeb Peake?—hongry Jeb, they useter call him.” Marvin broke off suddenly, having forgotten the significance and purpose of the recital in the rare pleasure of recounting. Even his wife’s face bore only retrospective absorption, and Serena had lifted her head, and fixed an excited, steadfast eye upon him. “Waal, hongry Jeb war a-settin’ thar in the corner, an’ bein’ toler’ble sleepy-headed he hed drapped off, his head agin the chimbley. An’ when Mose kem a-rampagin’ in thar, with his eyes poppin’ out, declarin’ thar war a harnt settin’ on the fence, eatin’,—‘_Eatin’ what?_’ sez hongry Jeb, a-startin’ up. Ha! ha! ha!” “Jeb ain’t never forgot the bottom o’ the pot yit,” chimed in the wife. “I ain’t a-grudgin’ him ter eat, though,” stipulated the moonshiner, “nor the harnt, nuther. I jes’ ’lowed ez that thar white-faced critter a-settin’ on the fence, a-thievin’ from the hog, mought take up a fancy ter Mose’s rifle, lef’ onpertected on the ground. So I goes out. Nuthin’ warn’t settin’ on the fence, ’ceptin’ the moonlight an’ that thar onregenerate young tur-rkey ez nuthin’ could hender from roostin’ on the rails o’ the hog-pen, stiddier on a limb o’ a tree, ’longside o’ the t’other tur-rkeys.” “An’ thar a fox cotch her afore daybreak,” interpolated Mrs. Marvin, supplying biographical deficiencies. “I always _did_ b’lieve ’twar them thar greedy old hogs,” said Serena. Marvin went on, disregarding the interruption:— “I picked up Mose’s gun, an’ in I kem. I barred up the door, an’ then I sot down an’ lighted my pipe. An’ Jeb, he tuk ter tellin’ tales ’bout all the folks ez he ever knowed ter be skeered haffen ter death”—