“I know, Parson, I know; but the case o’ Springle was onusual. He lived back along the other mo’ntain an’ one night killed a pedler fer his money. The sheriff’s posse chased him clean acrosst the walley to the river, an’ here they loss sight o’ him. Fer a whole week they beat up an’ down the bank an’ then give up the chase. A year after they foun’ all that was left o’ Bill Springle wedged right in that crack ahint me.” Dawson arose to his knees and peered over the prostrate body of his companion into the interesting crevice. Then he fell back to his old place, giving vent, as he did so, to a little laugh. “He’d starved to death,” Eben continued, “an’ they sais that sometimes on stormy nights he kin be seen settin’ here. I never put much faith in the story meself, ez----” “I’m glad you don’t, Eben,” the rector interrupted. “But suppose we talk of something more cheerful.” A long silence followed. “Parson,” the old man at length said, “why don’t ye sleep?” “On this narrow rock? I’d roll into the river.” “I’ll watch ye. D’ye see that lone pine tree standin’ out o’ that charcoal clearin’ on top o’ the mo’ntain?” Huckin indicated the spot with his hand, and Dawson nodded. “Well, ’hen the moon gits over that tree I’ll wake ye up. Then I’ll sleep.” The rector replied by rolling over on his back and watching the stars until his eyes closed. Soon the old man heard a soft, contented purring and he knew that for a time he was alone--at least till Bill Springle joined him. For a long while he sat in deep thought with his eyes fixed on the whirling waters below him. Suddenly he leaned over and peered into the face of the man sleeping at his side. “Parson,” he said softly, “I guesst ye needn’t mind no more about that mule.” CHAPTER XXII. _A Piece in the Paper._ The Chronic Loafer arose from the bench and stepped to the edge of the porch. He rested his left hand on the pillar, thrust his right hand into his pocket and gazed searchingly at the mountains. “What’s keepin’ you so quiet to-day?” asked the Teacher, lifting his eyes from the county paper. “One might suppose from the way you was watchin’ those mountains, you was expectin’ them to come over here so you could go fishin’.” The Loafer turned and looked down on the pedagogue. There was pity in his eyes and disdain lurking about the corners of his mouth. “Well, you don’t feel hurt, do you?” snapped the Teacher. “I guess you never fished,” was the reply. “To tell the truth I prefer more active pursuits.” The learned man said this with the air of one who was in the front rank in the great battle of life. “I prefer doin’ things to loungin’ along a creek tryin’ to catch a few small trout that never did me any harm.”