“Little feller, he is.  Ain’t as tall as Preachin’ Bill even, an’ fat!  I gonies! he’s fat as a possum ’n ’simmon time.  He don’t walk, can’t; just naturally waddles on them little duck legs o’ hisn.  An’ he’s got th’ prettiest little ol’ face; all red an’ white, an’ as round’s a walnut; an’ a fringe of th’ whitest hair you ever seed.  An’ clothes!  Say, men.”  In the pause the speaker deliberately relieved his overcharged mouth.  The two in the mill waited breathlessly.  “Long tailed coat, stove pipe hat, an’ cane with a gold head as big as a ’tater.  ‘Fo’ God, men, there ain’t been ary such a sight within a thousand miles of these here hills ever.  An’ doin’s!  My Lord, a’mighty!”

The thin form of the native doubled up as he broke into a laugh that echoed and re-echoed through the little valley, ending in a wild, “Whoop-e-e-e.  Say!  When he got out of th’ hack last night at th’ Forks, Uncle Ike he catched sight o’ him an’ says, says he t’ me, ’Ba thundas!  Lou, looky there!  Talk ’bout prosperity.  I’m dummed if there ain’t ol’ Santa Claus a comin’ t’ th’ Forks in th’ summa time.  ‘Ba thundas!  What!’

“An’ when Santa come in, he—­he wanted—­Now what d’ you reckon he wanted?  A bath!  Yes, sir-e-e.  Dad burn me, ’f he didn’t.  A bath!  Whoop-e-e, you ought t’ seen Uncle Ike!  He told him, ‘Ba thundas!’ he could give him a bite to eat an’ a place to sleep, but he’d be pisined bit by rattlers, clawed by wild cats, chawed by the hogs, et by buzzards, an’ everlastin’ly damned ’fore he’d tote water ‘nough fer anybody t’ swim in.  ‘Ba thundas!  What!’

“What’s he doin’ here?” asked Mr. Matthews, when the mountaineer had recovered from another explosion.

Lou shook his head, as he straightened himself in the saddle.  “Blame me ’f I kin tell.  Jest wouldn’t tell ’t all last night.  Wanted a bath.  Called Uncle Ike some new fangled kind of a savage, an’ th’ old man ’lowed he’d show him.  He’d sure have him persecuted fer ‘sultin’ a gov’ment servant when th’ inspector come around.  Yes he did.  Oh, thar was doin’s at the Forks last night!”

Again the mail carrier’s laugh echoed through the woods.

“Well, I must mosey along.  He warn’t up this mornin’ when I left.  Reckon he’ll show up ’round here sometime ‘fore sun down.  Him an’ Uncle Ike won’t hitch worth a cent an’ he’ll be huntin’ prouder folks.  I done told th’ old man he’d better herd him fer a spell, fer if he was t’ get loose in these woods, there wouldn’t be nary deer er bear left come Thanksgivin’ time.  Uncle Ike said ’Ba thundas!’ he’d let me know that he warn’t runnin’ no dummed asylum.  He ’lowed he was postmaster, ‘Ba thundas!’ an’ had all he could do t’ keep th’ dad burned gov’ment straight.”

Late that afternoon Lou’s prophecy was fulfilled.  A wagon going down the Creek with a load of supplies for the distillery stopped at the mill shed and the stranger began climbing carefully down over the wheels.  Budd Wilson on his high seat winked and nodded at Mr. Matthews and his son, as though it was the greatest joke of the season.