“Yes, sir!” exclaimed Ike, gratified by this sign of appreciation. Then warming to the subject he continued, “Uncle Ab ain’t ’feared o’ nuthin’—not even now, in the everlastin’ dark ez he be. Why, ’tother day I see a old cannon-ball a-layin’ on a ledge over yander at Keedon Bluffs, an’ when he learn ’bout’n it he war plumb trembly, he war so excited, an’ he ’lowed he’d go ef I’d holp him a leetle, an’ climb down them tremenjious cluffs, jes’ ter lay his hand on that cannon-ball, ter remind hisself o’ that thar old gun o’ his’n, what he doted on so. It fairly bruk his heart ter spike it. I hev heard him tell ’bout’n it a-many-a-time.” “Hey!” exclaimed Peter Sawyer, turning about in amaze, “a blind man climb down Keedon Bluffs! ’Twould take a mighty spry feller with all his senses fur that. I misdoubts ef ennybody hev ever done sech ez that—thout ’twar Ab whenst he war young an’ limber, an’ wild ez a buck.” Ike had become suddenly conscious that old Corbin was watching him curiously. “He don’t ’pear ter know he air blind, do he?” demanded the fat man, slowly. Ike detected some covert meaning in the tones. “Waal,” he said, vaguely embarrassed and swinging his foot against the rung of the chair, “Uncle Ab—he jes’ sets an’ laffs, an’ talks ’bout whar he hev been an’ what him an’ his comrades done, an’ he don’t notice much what’s goin’ on now, nor look out fur nuthin’ ez is ter kem.” “He ain’t soured noways,” put in the customer, still intent on his purchase. There was a momentary silence. The flies buzzed about the sorghum barrel. You might have heard the cat purring on the shelf. “This hyar ’bout fair medjure, Pete?” the customer demanded lifting his grave eyes as he helped himself to salt. “I reckon so; I reckon so,” said the storekeeper casually. Ike rose abruptly in awkward and eager haste; in a constrained and nervous way he asked for the logwood he wanted. His quick instincts had detected fault in something that he had said or the meaning that he had conveyed. But his penetration was not so subtle as to descry wherein the fault consisted. He was eager to get away. “’Fore I let my jaw git ter wabblin’ ag’in. An’ then I hed better cut off the e-end o’ my tongue with a hatchet an’ mebbe it wouldn’t be so powerful nimble.” He expected old Corbin to say more, but the fat man sat solemnly puffing his pipe, his face more than usually wrinkled, as he watched Ike with his small twinkling eyes while Peter Sawyer procured the logwood and gave it to the boy. With some indefinite intention of propitiation Ike turned toward him at the door. “I hev been toler’ble busy lately, but I’m a-goin’ ter cut down that thar tree this evening, sure.” “So do! So do!” assented old Corbin unreservedly. “Then I’ll gin ye that thar rooster I war a-tellin’ ye ’bout. Powerful spry Dominicky.”