Throwing one thin leg over the old mare’s neck, and waving a long arm up the hill and to the left, Jed drawled, “That thar’s Dewey Bal’; down yonder’s Mutton Holler.”  Then turning a little to the right and pointing into the mist with the other hand, he continued, “Compton Ridge is over thar.  Whar was you tryin’ to git to, Mister?”

“Where am I trying to get to?” As the man repeated Jed’s question, he drew his hand wearily across his brow; “I—­I—­it doesn’t much matter, boy.  I suppose I must find some place where I can stay to-night.  Do you live near here?”

“Nope,” Jed answered, “Hit’s a right smart piece to whar I live.  This here’s grindin’ day, an’ I’ve been t’ mill over on Fall Creek; the Matthews mill hit is.  Hit’ll be plumb dark ’gin I git home.  I ’lowed you was a stranger in these parts soon ’s I ketched sight of you.  What might yer name be, Mister?”

The other, looking back over the way he had come, seemed not to hear Jed’s question, and the native continued, “Mine’s Holland.  Pap an’ Mam they come from Tennessee.  Pap he’s down in th’ back now, an’ ain’t right peart, but he’ll be ’round in a little, I reckon.  Preachin’ Bill he ‘lows hit’s good fer a feller t’ be down in th’ back onct in a while; says if hit warn’t fer that we’d git to standin’ so durned proud an’ straight we’d go plumb over backwards.”

A bitter smile crossed the face of the older man.  He evidently applied the native’s philosophy in a way unguessed by Jed.  “Very true, very true, indeed,” he mused.  Then he turned to Jed, and asked, “Is there a house near here?”

“Jim Lane lives up the trail ’bout half a quarter.  Ever hear tell o’ Jim?”

“No, I have never been in these mountains before.”

“I ‘lowed maybe you’d heard tell o’ Jim or Sammy.  There’s them that ’lows Jim knows a heap more ’bout old man Dewey’s cave than he lets on; his place bein’ so nigh.  Reckon you know ’bout Colonel Dewey, him th’ Bal’ up thar’s named fer?  Maybe you come t’ look fer the big mine they say’s in th’ cave?  I’ll hep you hunt hit, if you want me to, Mister.”

“No,” said the other, “I am not looking for mines of lead or zinc; there is greater wealth in these hills and forests, young man.”

“Law, you don’t say!  Jim Wilson allus ’lowed thar must be gold in these here mountains, ’cause they’re so dad burned rough.  Lemme hep you, Mister.  I’d like mighty well t’ git some clothes like them.”

“I do not speak of gold, my boy,” the stranger answered kindly.  “But I must not keep you longer, or darkness will overtake us.  Do you think this Mr. Lane would entertain me?”

Jed pushed a hand up under his tattered old hat, and scratched awhile before he answered, “Don’t know ‘bout th’ entertainin’, Mister, but ’most anybody would take you in.”  He turned and looked thoughtfully up the trail.  “I don’t guess Jim’s to home though; ‘cause I see’d Sammy a fixin’ t’ go over t’ th’ Matthews’s when I come past.  You know the Matthews’s, I reckon?”