“But I hev been shirking some an’ no mistake, an’ I reckon the old man ’lowed that war jes’ the kind o’ stuff I be made out’n, totally. Now I be a-goin’ ter show him ’tain’t nuthin’ more ’n a streak.” And the steady strokes of the axe rang, and the chips flew, and the mountains echoed the industrial sound. Jerry Binwell looked unaccountably disappointed and disturbed. He changed the subject. “Why war ye axin’ Ab fur the loan o’ his gun this mornin’?” “Kase dad hev kerried his’n off, an’ I be a-goin’ ter git up the boys an’ go arter that thar painter. It riles me powerful ter go a-huntin’ a coon an’ git run by a painter. So I ’lowed we-uns would go ter-night.” Again the man slouching on the wood-pile seemed unaccountably worried and ill at ease. This reminded Ike of that curious nocturnal climbing of the rocks, and when he went up to the roof-room for some lead to mould bullets for the gun, he stood looking about him and wondering how Jerry Binwell contrived to escape from his hospitable quarters without rousing the family who slept in the room and in the shed-room below. There was no window; the long tent-like place was illumined only by the many cracks in the wall and roof. They had a dazzling silvery glister when one looked steadily at the light pouring through them amongst the brown timbers, and the many garments, and bags, and herbs, and peltries, hanging from the ridge-pole. One of these rifts struck him as wider than he had thought any of them could be. He reached up and touched the clapboard. It was loose; it rose with the pressure. A man not half so active as Binwell could have sprung through and upon the roof, and thence swung himself to the ground. The panther was surprised and killed that night. Jerry Binwell, and several other men who heard of the adventure, joined the party. They were all in high feather going home, and Skimpy sang a number of his roundelays, as he had often done before without exciting any particular admiration. He sang from animal spirits, as the other boys, less musically endowed, shouted and grotesquely yelled. Nevertheless, with the musician’s susceptibility to plaudits, his ear was attuned to Jerry Binwell’s exclamation, addressed to one of the men in the rear, “Jes’ listen how that thar young one kin sing! ’Pears plumb s’prisin’!” And the good-natured mountaineer returned, “That’s a fac’. Wouldn’t be s’prised none ef Skimp shows a reg’lar gift fur quirin’.” “He sings better now’n all the folkses in the church-house,” said the guileful Jerry. The flattered Skimpy!