Birt’s first sensation was renewed disappointment.  Then he was disposed to investigate the mystery of Nate’s non-appearance.

“Hello, Rufe!” he called out, as soon as the small boy was inside the tanyard, “be you-uns sure ez Nate said he’d come over by sun-up?”

Rufe halted and gazed about him, endeavoring to conjure an expression of surprise into his freckled face.  He even opened his mouth to exhibit astonishment—­exhibiting chiefly that equivocal tongue, and a large assortment of jagged squirrel teeth.

“Hain’t Nate come yit?” he ventured.

The tanner suddenly put into the conversation.

“War it Nate Griggs ez ye war aimin’ ter trade with ter take yer place wunst in a while in the tanyard?”

Birt assented.  “An’ he ’lowed he’d be hyar ter-day by sun-up.  Rufe brung that word from him yestiddy.”

Rufe’s conscience had given him a recess, during which he had consumed several horse-apples in considerable complacence and a total disregard of “yerb tea.”  He had climbed a tree, and sampled a green persimmon, and he endured with fortitude the pucker in his mouth, since it enabled him to make such faces at Towse as caused the dog to snap and growl in a frenzy of surprised indignation.  He had fashioned a corn-stalk fiddle—­that instrument so dear to rural children!—­and he had been sawing away on it to his own satisfaction and Tennessee’s unbounded admiration for the last half-hour.  He had forgotten that pursuing conscience till it seized upon him again in the tanyard.

“Oh, Birt,” he quavered out, suddenly, “I hain’t laid eyes on Nate.”

Birt exclaimed indignantly, and Jubal Perkins laughed.

“I seen sech a cur’ous lookin’ man, down in the ravine by the lick, ez it sot me all catawampus!” continued Rufe.

As he told of his defection, and the falsehood with which he had accounted for it, Jubal Perkins came to a sudden decision.

“Git on that thar mule, Birt, an’ ride over ter Nate’s, an’ find out what ails him, ef so be ye hanker ter know.  I don’t want nobody workin’ in this hyar tanyard ez looks ez mournful ez ye do—­like ez ef ye hed been buried an’ dug up.  But hurry back, ’kase there ain’t enough bark ground yit, an’ I hev got other turns o’ work I want ye ter do besides ’fore dark.”

“War that Satan?” asked Rufe abruptly.

“Whar?” exclaimed Birt, startled, and glancing hastily over his shoulder.

“Down yander by the lick,” plained Rufe.

“Naw!” said Birt, scornfully, “an’ nuthin’ like Satan, I’ll be bound!”

He was, however, uneasy to hear of any man down the ravine in the neighborhood of his hidden treasure, but he could not now question Rufe, for Jube Perkins, with mock severity, was taking the small boy to account.

Byers was looking on, the knife idle in his hands, and his lips distended with a wide grin in the anticipation of getting some fun out of Rufe.