“Thar’s truth in what you say, ma’am, thar’s a deal of truth in it,” they agreed, nodding dejected craven heads over their pipes.  Like all born politicians, their eye was for the main chance rather than for the argument, and they found it easier to forswear a conviction than to forego a comfort.

“Well, I’m roastin’ a young possum along with the squirrel stew, so you’d better work up an appetite,” she said in a mollified tone at at the end of her lecture, as though she were desirous of infusing a more ardent spirit into them before her departure.

When the barn door closed behind her, a sigh of relief, half stifled through fear of detection, passed round the group.

“Thar goes a woman in a thousand,” observed old Adam, edging nearer the bin.

“In a million—­let’s make it a million,” urged Solomon Hatch.

“If they were all like that the world would be different, Mr. Doolittle,” remarked Jim Halloween.

“Ah, yes, it would be different,” agreed old Adam, and he sighed again.

“Thar’d be strict walkin’ among us, I reckon,” said his son.

“An’ a chalk line the same as we draw for the sex,” added Solomon Hatch.

“Sin would be scarce then an’ life earnest,” remarked William Ming, who had alluded to Betsey in the most distant terms ever since he had married her.

“We’d abide by the letter like the women, not by the spirit as we do,” reflected Solomon.

They sighed for the third time more heavily, and the dried husks on the floor around the bin rattled as though a strong wind had entered.

“But she’s one in a million, Mr. Doolittle,” protested Solomon, after a pause, and his tone had grown cheerful.

“Yes, I reckon it’s a million.  Thar ain’t mo’ than one in a million of that rare sort,” responded old Adam, falling to work with a zest.

“Was that ar young possum she spoke of the one yo’ dawg Bess treed day befo’ yesterday, William?” inquired Jim Halloween, whose hopes were centred upon the reward of his labours.

“Naw! that was an old un,” replied William.  “But thar never was a better possum dawg than that Bess of ours.  I declar, she’s got so much sense that she’ll tree anything that grins at her, whether it’s nigger or possum.  Ain’t that so, old gal?” he inquired of the spotted hound on a bed of husks at his side.  “It wan’t no longer than last week that she kept that little nigger of Uncle Boaz’s up a persimmon tree for mo’n an hour.”

“Thar’s some niggers that look so much like possums when they git up in persimmon branches that it takes a sharp eye to tell the difference,” observed Tim Mallory.

“Well, I’m partial to possum,” remarked old Adam.  “When all’s said, thar ain’t a better meat to the taste as long as it’s plump an’ juicy.  Will you hand on that jug of cider, Tim?  It’s wonderful the way corn shuckin’ manages to parch the throat an’ whet the appetite.”