“He’d ’a’ looked like small potatys ’long side o’ my Missus. I mind the time ’hen jest fer fun I----” The Patriarch tapped the Loafer gently on the knee with his cane. “My dear man,” he said gently, “never interrupt a good story. It ain’t polite. There is some peculiarly minded folks ez is never happy ’less they is doin’ all the talkin’. Now where did I leave off?” “Where there was hope--some hope,” the Miller answered. “Hope--oh, yes--hope,” the old man continued. “Mighty! Why I’ve knowd a sensible hen to set four weeks on a chiny egg, jest in hope that she might be mistaken. Si Berrybush knowd human natur’ well, fer it didn’t need but a wiggle or two o’ the pistol to bring Buttonporgie to takin’ his view o’ the sensibleness o’ hopin’. The pedler looked kind o’ sheepish an’ ’lowed he guesst Si was right. Si sayd he guesst he was, an’ climbed into the pack, an’ most mighty snug he fit it. Then Buttonporgie knelt down, put his arms th’oo the straps an’ lifted the load high on his back. Si closed down the flap. A second later Tom felt the muzzle o’ the pistol pressin’ him gentle like atween the shoulders. “‘Now we’re off,’ sais Si, ‘over the mo’ntains th’oo Windy Gap. Step light, ole hoss,’ he sais, ‘fer the gun’s cocked an’ too much joltin’ll send it off.’” “Mighty souls!” interrupted the Loafer. “An’ how fur did he hev to carry him, Gran’pap? A mile?” “A mile!” exclaimed the Patriarch. “Pshaw! Does you uns think a mile ’ud ’a’ put Si Berrybush outen the way o’ the sheriff’s posse. Why, the whole county was alive that mornin’. It was hardly sun-up ’hen Tom Buttonporgie stepped outen Clock’s barn an’ went ploddin’ up the big road with his pack, yit at the eend o’ the first mile he met th’ee men on horseback, an’ they pulled up an’ told him all about Berrybush an’ warned him to keep out a sharp eye. Tom felt the pistol bawrel kind o’ nosin’ ’round his shoulders, so he laughed wery pleasant an’ ’lowed it was all right; he was obliged fer the warnin’ but there was no help fer Si Berrybush ef he ever come within the length o’ his arm. On he went agin. Ez the last o’ the horses’ hoofs died away down the road he hear a gentle chucklin’ coming from his pack. “‘Wery good,’ sais Si, ‘most a mighty good.’ “The pedler was a religious man yit he swore. At that he could feel his pack palpitatin’, fer his load was laughin’ an’ laughin’ to beat all. Tom swore some more, but he kept up his walkin’. “Si ’lowed it wasn’t nice fer Tom to carry on so. “‘It makes me feel bad,’ he sayd, talkin’ th’oo a slit in the top o’ the pack. ‘It makes me feel bad, Tom, to hear you behavin’ like that. I don’t mind killin’ a good man, fer I knows he’ll git his reward in the next world. But shootin’ a felly after he’s used sech language hurts me,’ he sayd. “With that he rubbed the nose o’ the pistol between Tom’s shoulder-blades. The pedler jest bubbled.