"That may be, but he was no relation of mine." "Had long red whiskers and his hair stood up straight--seed him climb a tree one night and shake a coon out as slick as a whistle. Had a dog named Tige--feller pizened him. Where you frum?" "Nashville. I wish you'd look--" "Yes, that's what I'm goin' to do. And ain't this Jasper Starbuck's daughter? I thought so," he added when Lou nodded at him. "I've knowed Jasper a long time, but folks don't git round a visitin' now like they uster. Never seed yo' father drunk in my life--swear it's a fact; never did. I'll bet he kin whup a ground-hog as big as he is. And I'll sw'ar, ain't this little Jimmie Starbuck?" "My name is Jim and I am a Starbuck," the preacher answered. "Thought I know'd you. Ah, hah, and they tell me you air preachin' the gospel now. Which one o' the gospels air you preachin', Luke or John? Wall, no diffunce, either of 'em is good enough, I reckon. I never tried to preach." "I wish you'd try to look over your stock of mail matter," said Tom. "I'll do that, too. What was the other name. Mayfield? Well, that's a familiar name to me. My grandmother was a Mayfield--no, Mayhew. Putty nigh the same anyhow. You air expectin' a letter, I reckon." "Yes, if you please." "From yo' husband? No, you ain't married, of co'se. And I want to tell you that you may have any letter in this shop, don't make no odds who it's writ to. I'm allus glad to have folks come. I set here day after day, by myself a good deal of the time, and I like comp'ny, too; uster be a mighty hand to go round, but sorter give it up atter I got busy. Now, let me see whar I put them letters." He scratched his head. "I had 'em yistidy, I'm certain of that." He went behind his counter, shook a barrel, looked into it--looked into a cracker box, into a crock jar, and brought out a handful of letters. "Oh, I know'd they was here somewhar," he said. "Elliott, Mayfield," he repeated, looking at the letters. "Here's one for Endiott--'bout as near as I can come to you, young feller. Will that do?" "Of course not," Tom answered. "It isn't for me." "Near enough, ain't it. Oughtn't to blame a man when he's doin' the best he can. I can't hit at you at all, Mrs. Mayfield. Ain't nuthin' here that sounds like you." "Really," she said, "this is a remarkable post-office." "One of the best, ma'm," replied the post-master. "Come in, Squire," he called as a man, leading a hound, appeared at the door. "I want a pint," said the Squire. "All right--let me look at yo' dog." He examined the hound's teeth, punched him in the side to catch his tone, pronounced his yelp of good note, and gave the Squire a pint of liquor. "About as peculiar case of barter as I ever saw," said Tom when the Squire withdrew with his purchase. "Yas, mout seem so, but a good artickle of hound is a currency at this sto'." "I heard that I might find peculiar people in this part of the country," said Mrs. Mayfield, "and I have not been disappointed."