fire.  I reckon I mus’ hev made consider’ble racket in thar, ‘kase I never hearn nuthin’ till I sot down afore the fire on a log o’ wood, an’ lit my pipe.  All of a suddenty thar kem a step outside, toler’ble light on the tan.  I jes’ ’lowed ‘t war ye or Birt.  But I happened ter look up, an’ thar I see a couple o’ big black eyes peepin’ through that thar crack in the wall.”

He turned and pointed out a crevice where the “daubin’” had fallen from the “chinkin’” between the logs.

“Ye can see,” he resumed, “ez this hyar crack air jes’ the height o’ Birt.  Waal, them eyes lookin’ in so onexpected didn’t ’sturb me none.  I hev knowed the Dicey eye fur thirty year, an’ thar ain’t none like ’em nowhar round the mountings.  But I ’lowed ’t war toler’ble sassy in Birt ter stand thar peerin’ at me through the chinkin’.  I never let on, though, ez I viewed him.  An’ then, them eyes jes’ set up sech a outdacious winkin’ an’ wallin’, an’ squinchin’, ez I knowed he war makin’ faces at me.  So I jes’ riz up—­an’ the eyes slipped away from thar in a hurry.  I war aimin’ ter larrup Birt fur his sass, but I stopped ter hang up a skin ez I hed knocked down.  It never tuk me long, much, but when I went out, thar warn’t nobody ter be seen in the tanyard.”

He paused to place one foot upon the wooden horse, and he leaned forward with a reflective expression, his elbow on his knee, and his hand holding his bearded chin.

The afternoon was waning.  The scarlet sun in magnified splendor was ablaze low down in the saffron west.  The world seemed languorously afloat in the deep, serene flood of light.  Shadows were lengthening slowly.  The clangor of a cow-bell vibrated in the distance.

The drone of Andy Byers’s voice overbore it as he recommenced.

“Waal, I was sorter conflusticated, an’ I looked round powerful sharp ter see whar Birt hed disappeared to.  I happened ter cut my eye round at that thar pit ez he hed finished layin’ the tan in, an’ kivered with boards, an’ weighted with rocks that day ez ye an’ me hed ter go an’ attend on old Mrs. Price.  Ye know we counted ez that thar pit wouldn’t be opened ag’in fur a right smart time?”

The tanner nodded assent.

“Waal, I noticed ez the aidge o’ one o’ them boards war sot sorter catawampus, an’ I ’lowed ez ’t war the wind ez hed ’sturbed it.  Ez I stooped down ter move it back in its place, I seen su’thin’ white under it.  So I lifted the board, an’ thar I see, lyin’ on the tan a-top o’ the pit, a stiff white paper.  I looked round toward the shed, an’ thar hung the coat yit—­with nuthin’ in the pocket.  I didn’t know edzactly what ter make of it, an’ I jes’ shunted the plank back over the paper in the pit like I fund it, an’ waited ter see what mought happen.  An’ all the time ez that thar racket war goin’ on bout’n the grant, I knowed powerful well whar ‘t war, an’ who stole it.”

Birt looked from one to the other of the two men.  Both evidently believed every syllable of this story.  It was so natural, so credible, that he had a curious sense of inclining toward it, too.  Had he indeed, in some aberration, taken the grant?  Was it some tricksy spirit in his likeness that had peered through the chinking at Andy Byers?