“Gone huntin’!” ejaculated Rufe in dudgeon, joining unceremoniously in the conversation of his elders.  “Now, Birt mought hev let me know!  I’d hev wanted ter go along too.”

“Mebbe that air the reason he never tole ye, bub,” said Perkins dryly.

For he could appreciate that Rufe’s society was not always a boon, although he took a lenient view of the little boy.  Any indulgence of Birt was more unusual, and Andy Byers experienced some surprise to hear of the unwonted sylvan recreations of the young drudge.  He noticed that the mule was off duty too, grazing among the bushes just beyond the fence, and hobbled so that he could not run away.  This precaution might have seemed a practical joke on the mule, for the poor old animal was only too glad to stand stock still.

Rufe continued his exclamatory indignation.

“Jes’ ter go lopin’ off inter the woods huntin’, ‘thout lettin’ me know!  An’ I never gits ter go huntin’ nohow!  An’ mam won’t let me tech Birt’s rifle, ’thout it air ez empty ez a gourd!  She say she air feared I’ll shoot my head off, an’ she don’t want no boys, ‘thout heads, jouncin’ round her house—­shucks!  Which way did Birt take, Mister Perkins?—­’kase I be goin’ ter ketch up.”

“He war headed fur that thar salt lick, whenst I las’ seen him,” replied the tanner; “ef ye stir yer stumps right lively, mebbe ye’ll overhaul him yit.”

Rufe rose precipitately.  Towse, believing his petition for the papaw was about to be rewarded, leaped up too, gamboling with a display of ecstasy that might have befitted a starving creature, and an elasticity to be expected only of a rubber dog.  As he uttered a shrill yelp of delight, he sprang up against Rufe, who, reeling under the shock, dropped the remnant of the papaw.  Towse darted upon it, sniffed disdainfully, and returned to his capers around Rufe, evidently declining to believe that all that show of gustatory satisfaction had been elicited only by the papaw, and that Rufe had nothing else to eat.

Thus the two took their way out of the tanyard; and even after they had disappeared, their progress through the underbrush was marked by an abnormal commotion among the leaves, as the saltatory skeptic of a dog insisted on more substantial favors than the succulent papaw.

The tanner smoked for a time in silence.

Then, “Birt ain’t goin’ ter be let ter work hyar ag’in,” he said.

Byers elevated his shaggy eyebrows in surprise.

“Ye see,” said the tanner in a confidential undertone, “sence Birt hev stole that thar grant, I kin argufy ez he mought steal su’thin’ else, an’ I ain’t ekal ter keepin’ up a spry lookout on things, an’ bein’ partic’lar ‘bout the count o’ the hides an’ sech.  I can’t feel easy with sech a mischeevious scamp around.”