“I be sorry ye hev got tired o’ me. I ain’t ez school-larned ez ye, though I ain’t like a ignorant mountaineer, nuther. I hev larned some in books, an’ I be one o’ them ez kin larn out’n ’em, too. Thar’s a heap o’ things I know—through jes’ bein’ knowin’.” His look was the very essence of boastful slyness as he cast his eyes up obliquely at the flushing face of the young townsman. He had his elbows once more on his knees, and his chin in his long bony hand, and his drawl was not as distinct, thus hampered, as it might have been. “Eli Strobe hev been ter Glaston time I war tried, likewise Teck Jepson. They never larnt thar what I larned ’bout town ways; they never seen thar what I seen! Though Teck Jepson hev got sech a survigrous vision ez he kin view the prophets o’ the Lord lopin’ around the Big Smoky Mountings!—when the men never war out’n Ashy in all thar born days, ’ceptin’ they hed a sorter stampin’-ground o’ captivity in Egypt.” He gave the self-flattering laugh of conscious cleverness, and then went on with that manner compounded of mock-humility and fraternal familiarity which had become so offensive to Rathburn. “But I ain’t ekal ter sech ez you-uns, Eugene, an’ I don’t wonder none ef ye hev in an’ about hed enough o’ me. I don’t wish ye nuthin’ but well. Mebbe ye mought hire some o’ them men ez war along o’ Teck Jepson at the blacksmith’s barn ter-night ter kem an’ dig an’ sink shafts.” He rubbed his chin in pretended cogitation upon ways and means. “Folks in Brumsaidge ain’t gin over ter diggin’ much—seems ez ef it in an’ about kills ’em ter hev ter scratch the top o’ the ground enough with thar shallow plowin’ ter put in the leetle bit o’ corn an’ sorghum an’ sech ter keep the life in ’em. But mebbe ef ye war ter hire ’em, they would be cured o’ thar dad-burned laziness, an’ would jes’ jump fur jye fur the pleasure o’ diggin’ down sixty or sebenty feet in the hard groun’. They would git used ter giant-powder an’ sech, too, arter a while—an’ wouldn’t ’low the Devil war in it.” Eugene Rathburn was chewing the end of his mustache, now and then pausing with his white teeth set, and looking at Baintree with antagonistic eyes, his anger held in bounds only by the sense of being at a disadvantage, and the demoralizing effect of sustaining an unrequitable rebuff,—for Baintree’s sarcasm admitted of no successful retort. It was merely for the sake of going through the motions of self-confidence and asserting independence, that he said in an offhand way, “Oh, I meant laborers from Glaston—Irish ditchers; they are willing to dig, I fancy.” Jake Baintree affected to receive this with solemn consideration. “Yes, sir! _They’d_ dig. Useter see a gang a-workin’ on that thar new railroad—whilst lookin’ out’n the jail winder.” It seemed a wide and varied expression of the world and of life that that jail window had given upon, so much had the crafty observation been able to glean therefrom.