Ike looked back over his shoulder once as he trotted off on the old white mare. The storekeeper and his clerk were standing in the doorway; the ex-soldier had completed his purchases, and was riding off toward the mountain; old Corbin was visible sitting within the door, a hand on either knee, his eyes meditatively downcast. He solemnly shook his head as he cogitated, and Ike was moved to wonder what he meant by it. “I wisht I hedn’t tole what uncle Ab say ’bout climbin’ down them bluffs. They ’pear ter think it be so cur’ous.” And it was of Abner Guyther that the two gossips were talking as Ike rode away out of sight. “That be a powerful strange thing fur Abner ter be a-sayin’,” remarked the storekeeper presently. Old Corbin shook his head with a wise look; a wise smile wrinkled about the corners of his mouth. “In my opinion _he_ ain’t no blind man. He kin see _some_, mebbe more, mebbe less. He air jes’ purtendin’. Set up thar an’ laff an’ joke ez spry ez a boy o’ twenty, an’ talk ’bout climbin’ down the bluffs—an’ tell me he ain’t hed his vision for all these years! I know Abner!” “What makes ye ’low sech ez that, Jake?” demanded his crony, fairly startled out of his composure by this proposition. “Kase Abner always war a ’sateful an’ a plottin’ boy—look at the way he fooled his folks when he run off ter jine the Secesh! I ain’t furgittin’ that. An sure’s ye air born thar’s suthin’ behind all them thar shet eyeballs. Abner, he hain’t quit his plannin’ an’ sech. He hev got his reason fur it. It’s slow a-showin’. But it’ll be made plain.” The storekeeper puffed his cob-pipe, and silently watched the blue wreaths curl from it. He did not enter readily into this opinion, for he was a man of the practical views natural to those who associate much with their fellows. Despite the sparse population of the district he had a pivotal participation in such life as there was on the slopes and in the cove, for it revolved about the store. But Corbin spent his days in mere mechanical labor that left his mind free to wander. Thus speculation and vague fancies were his companions, and there was scant wonder that he should presently treat them as conclusions and facts. In silent anticipation of the elucidation of the singular theory advanced, Peter Sawyer drew from his pocket a strong clasp knife and began to whittle a bit of wood which he picked up from the doorstep. But old Corbin’s next remark seemed to have no relation to the subject. “Who d’ye reckon I seen yestiddy up yander by that thar big vine-grown spot what they calls Old Scratch’s vineyard?” Pete Sawyer looked inquiringly doubtful, but silently puffed his pipe. “_Jerry Binwell!_” Old Corbin paused after he said this, smiling broadly and fixedly—all the wrinkles about his mouth and eyes seemed to come out as if to enjoy the sensation that this announcement occasioned. The storekeeper stared blankly for a moment, then dropped his pipe upon the ground. The fire rolled out.