“But them witches an’ sech air in them holes all day an’ ef ennybody war sech a fool ez ter go meddlin’ with ’em, ef so be they could git down thar ennywise—_they’d ketch it_!” He shook his head in a way that promised horrors. “What would they do ter ’em?” asked the morbidly fascinated Skimpy. He dared not look over his shoulder now. The narrator was forced to specify, “Strangle ’em.” Skimpy shuddered, but Ike was ready to laugh outright. He stared at the speaker as if he found him far more queer than his story. “Ye ’member old man Hobbs?” said the stranger suddenly. “I hearn my dad tell ’bout’n him,” returned Ike. “Old man Hobbs said he walked off’n the Bluffs through bein’ drunk an’ fell inter the river—though ez he war picked up alive folks b’lieved he never fell off’n the Bluffs, but jes’ said so, bein’ drunk an’ foolish.” “Naw, it’s a fac’,” said the stranger, as if he knew all about it. “The witches got ter clawin’ an’ draggin’ of him, an’ they drug him in the water, bein’ ez he war a-foolin’ roun’ them hollows an’ this hyar spot ginerally.” “Oh, I’m goin’,” cried Skimpy; then as he started off, the idea of being alone in the great woods, with the night settling down, came upon him with overwhelming terror, and he renewed his pleas to Ike. “Kem on, Ike. We-uns hev been hyar long enough.” “Oh, shet up,” cried Ike roughly. “The witches ain’t goin’ ter strangle ye ez long ez ye hev got me alongside ter pertect ye.” He wanted to hear more of what this man had to say, for he placed a different interpretation upon his words. But Rosamond had lifted her voice, and seeing that her father was preparing to start anew on their forlorn journeying was insisting on a change in the arrangement. “I wants ye ter let the calf ride!” she cried in her vibrating musical treble. “I wants the calf ter ri-ride!” The calf added its voice to hers, and bleated as it ran along behind. It had evidently come far and was travel-worn. “I wants the calf ter ride wif _me_!” she cried again, with an imperious squeal upon the last syllable. “The calf can’t ride, Rosamondy,” the man said, in gentlest expostulation. “He’s too heavy fur the steer—pore steer.” “Naw, pore calf!” cried Rosamondy, and burst into tearful rage. “Ah, Rosamondy, ain’t ye ’shamed ter be sech a bad leetle gal? Ain’t ye ’feared them boys’ll go off an’ tell ev’ybody what a bad leetle gal ye be!” But Rosamond evidently did not care how far and wide they published her “badness,” and after the boys had turned off into the woods, leaving the wagon creaking along the road with the ox between the shafts, and the man driving the cow in advance, they still heard the piteous bleats of the little calf trotting behind, and Rosamondy’s insistent squeal, “I wants the calf ter ride wif _me_!”